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FROM   THE   LIBRARY  OF 

REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON.  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY  HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


HfUoa     ScS 

/Y737 


*£ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/wordsOOhowe 


^Rtf  of  pfi/^c^s 

"  JUN  22  1933 

AYORDS  FOR  THE   HOUR. 


THE   AUTHOR    OF   "PASSION-FLOWERS.' 

3u\\a  V/va^td  How- 


BOSTON: 
TICK  NOR     AND     FIELDS. 

M  DCCC  LVII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 

TlCKNOR  AND   FIELDS, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


RIVERSIDE,   CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED      AND      PRINTED      BY 

H.    0.    HOUGHTON   AND    COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


The  Lyric  1 5 

The  Sermon  of  Spring 7 

Teemont  Temple 23 

Slave  Eloquence 25 

An  Hour  in  the  Senate 27 

The  Senator's  Return 30 

Slave  Suicide 32 

Balaklav  a 35 

To  Florence  Nightingale 38 

Florence  Nightingale  and  her  Praisers 40 

Furthermore 43 

Privation 45 

On  receiving  a  Volume  after  the  Death  of  the  Author  49 

Via  Felice 52 

DlLEXIT    MULTUM 57 

The  Park 59 

Fanny  Kemble's  Child 63 

The  Smooth  Portrait 69 

The  Rough  Sketch 71 

Mystic — not  Mysterious 73 

Maud 75 

Love  in  Exile 80 


IV  CONTENTS. 

MORNING 82 

What  I  Have 83 

What  I  Bear 85 

Sue 88 

S.  P 91 

Widow's  Words 94 

The  Nursery 96 

A  Letter 99 

The  Poet's  Wish 101 

Entsagen 102 

The  Beautiful 104 

Where  is  the  Beautiful 108 

As  it  Seems Ill 

As  it  Is 113 

A  Vision  of  Montgomery  Place 115 

Prom  the  Lattice 119 

A  Maid's  Requisition 121 

In  the  Vineyard 122 

The  Wolf  within  the  Mother's  Sheepfold 124 

The  Lamb  Without 126 

The  Shadow  that  is  Born  with  Us 129 

A  Man's  Story 132 

The  Light  Fallen 135 

The  Two  Stars 136 

A  Word  with  the  Brownings 139 

One  Word  more  with  E.  B.  B 145 

Dante 148 

Moonlight 150 

The  Prisoner  of  Hope 152 

High  Art 154 

Prelude 159 

Ade 164 


THE  LYRIC  L 

Have  pity  on  the  lyric  I, 
The  poet's  eye  that  finely  rolls, 
And  holds  convertible  domain 
From  burning  Cancer  to  the  poles. 

Not  of  itself  th'  incendiant  spark 

That  sets  men's  thoughts  to  smoke  and  blaze  ; 

It  is  a  spirit  fire-glass, 

That  kindles  with  concentred  rays. 

It  hath  a  weary  work  to  do, 
Fifth  of  all  sounds  that  sing  or  sigh, 
Third  of  the  great  things  I  O  U, 
It  speeds,  the  monographic  I. 

Its  pain  and  evil  I  have  seen 
Where  heart  and  manhood  withering  lie, 
And  said  :  "  Good  friend,  you  cannot  heal, 
Till  you  consent  to  lose  this  I." 

Empiric  if  our  notions  be, 
Or  with  Hegelian  learning  wise, 
Or  set  on  simplest  common  sense, 
There  is  a  difference  in  our  I — s. 


THE    LYRIC    I. 

The  philosophic  I,  is  not 
The  I  that  any  man  may  meet 
On  errands  of  familiar  use, 
Or  held  to  greetings  in  the  street. 

The  I  that  cannot  choose  but  stand 
Great  rights  and  wrongings  to  assert, 
Is  not  the  I  that  wastes  the  meal, 
And  leaves  hiatus  in  the  shirt. 

*         *  * 

Nor  must  the  sorrows  of  my  song 
Stand  for  the  household  weights  I  bear, 
Who  thankful  every  morn  return 
To  tasks  beloved  of  thought  and  prayer. 

Nor  such  as  share  my  working  sphere, 
Plagued  with  my  music  to  the  soul, 
For  Giant  foes  that  shut  the  world 
With  false  and  tyrannous  control. 

Eyes  may  be  sad  at  prison  bars 
To  whom  the  sun  is  glad  and  free  ; 
And  placid  depths  of  Being  show 
The  storm-clouds  of  Humanity. 

And  as  one  emblematic  cup 

From  lip  to  lip  doth  fervent  move, 

So  make  my  poet  vase  a  boon 

For  all  who  weep,  and  think,  and  love. 


POEMS 


THE  SERMON  OF  SPRING. 

i. 

Now   that   the    Spring  ushers  smiling  the  full,  glad 

Summer, 
As  the  bride-maiden  the  bride,  to  grow  modest  beside 

her, 
"  Here  is  my  sister,"  she  saith,  "  but  more  fashioned 

and  perfect, 
Come  to  a  fuller  growth  in  the  heart  of  the  Highest, 
She  the  decision,  I  the  intent  of  His  kindness — 
Her  receive,  0  ye  mortals,  for  good  and  fruition. 
And  as  my  blushes  are  lost  in  the  glow  of  her  beauty, 
So   let   your   pleasures  give  place   to   the  earnest  of 

Wisdom. 

(7) 


O  THE    SERMOX    OF    SPRING. 

Wisdom,    the    true   joy  extatic,    made    good    through 

upholding 
The    burthen  of  noontide,   with    multiform    splendors 

o'ercharging 
Man's  weak  brain,  which  resists  them  and  therefore  is 

manly. 
Ye   who  walk  happy   to-day,  who   unclasp   the   light 

vesture, 
That  to  the  heart  the  warm  sunshine  may  do  its  glad 

mission, 
That  through  the  breast  may  strike  rapturous  joy  and 

expansion, 
Ye  will  have  sighs  to  give  forth  ere  the  mantle  fold 

closer ; 
Ye  must  be  sadder  and  wiser  ere  Summer  shall  leave 

you." 
What  should  the  Summer  prove,  what  the  brunt  and 

the  bearing, 
When  the  fair  Spring-tide  doth  leave  us  a  sting  in  her 

blossoms  ? 
What   shall   the    action   be,    what    the    striving    and 

tearing. 
When   the    great   heart  of  a  Nation,  in  wildest  com- 
motion 
Shakes   with    its    terrible    heaving    the   green   earth 

beneath  us  ? 


THE    SERMON    OF    SPRING.  V 

Heart  like  a  woman's,  (the  heart  is  the  woman  in  all 

things,) 
That,  through  false   guidance  betrayed  from  its   own 

nobler  instincts, 
"Wakes  yet  to  consciousness,  learning  too  late  the  foul 

treason, 
Cries    thence    for    succor,    if    there     be     justice    in 

heaven. 
"What   are  these  passions,  the  fiendish,  that  rush  into 

transport  ? 
"What  are  these  voices,  the  earnest,  that  rise  to  rebuke 

them? 
What  is  this  anguish?    the  poor  heart  grows  passive 

and  breathless, 
Tightened  with  terror  lest  the)',  the  malignant,  should 

conquer, 
Lifting  its  hope  to  the  Godhead  that,  brooding  above 

us, 
Says  of  the   Chaos,  this  too  is  my  righteous  appoint- 
ing. 
Yes,    but     the    Chaos     knew    the    command    of    its 

master, 
Sleeked  its  black  roughness,  and  sank  at  his  feet  like  a 

watch-dog. 
'T  was   but  the  threshold   I   kept  of  thine  uncounted 

treasures  ; 


10  THE    SERMON    OF    SPRING. 

Take  them  unwasted,  Master,  bring  out  their  fair 
beauties  ; 

Fling  to  the  wondering  deep  the  new  sun  and  the 
planets, 

Build  in  the  infinite  largeness  the  heavens  that  shall 
praise  Thee. 

Oh  !  had  it  risen  instead  with  a  purpose  persistent ; 

Said  :  I  am  somewhat,  and  that  which  I  am  I  continue. 

Why  should  I  yield  my  tumultuous  joy  of  rebellion, 

That  thy  law  should  remodel  my  ancient  dominion ; 

That  thy  will,  which  I  care  not  to  know,  be  accom- 
plished ? 

With  what  a  smile  had  the  lips  which  I  dare  not 
imagine 

Struck  the  rude  outlaw  to  mute  and  immediate  homage ! 

How  had  the  outstretched  finger  vouchsafed  its  calm 
guidance, 

Till  the  dark  pulses  should  leap  to  the  thrill  of  His 
music ! 

So,  from  the  wilder  tumult  these  symbols  would  picture, 

Let  the  torn  heart  of  my  country  turn,  silent  and  stead- 
fast, 

Seized  with  the  courage  of  good,  till  the  uproar  re- 
ceding 

Be  as  the  thoughts  of  a  child,  who,  admonished  at 
bedtime, 


THE    SERMON    OF    SPRING.  11 

"  Thou  hast  been  froward,"  creeps  nearer  the  breast  of 

his  mother, 
Strangely  recalling  the  passionate  cries  of  the  morning. 


II. 

Who   are   these   that  sweep  on  to  the  House  of  the 

People, 
Cherished  like  song-birds,  warm  with  their  own  downy 

wrappings  ? 
Splendors  of  feathers  we  see,  as  of  laces  and  diamonds  ; 
Splendors    of  beauty,  that    shame   the    adornment  of 

either. 
Met   by  the   Marshal,  and   led   to   the    smile    of  the 

Magnate 
Bland  in  his  greeting — blandly  they  please  him  with 

curtseys. 
Fairest  of  women  tender  white  hands  for  his  touching  ; 
Men  of  the  haughtiest  wait  for  the  nod  of  their  patron. 
Has  he  betrayed  the  trust  that  was  left  to  his  swear- 
ing? 
Hush !    't  is   the   Chair    Presidential   to  which  we    do 

homage  ; 
Every  man  cringes  where  any  man  may  aspire. 
One  I  discovered,  haply  not  seen  by  my  fellows ; 
Young  and  a  Virgin,  wearing  her  fillet  of  oak-leaves, 


12  THE    SERMON    OF    SPRING. 

Wearing  the  green  nodding  plumes  of  the  Court  of  the 

Prairie, 
Gyres  on  her  free-born  limbs,  on  her  fair  arms  shackles, 
Blood  on  her  garments,  terror  and  grief  in  her  features. 
Oh !    she   was    weary,   upholding   the    crown    of    her 

promise, 
Keeping  the  watch  and  the  ward  that  brave  men  should 

have  kept  her. 
Oh !  she  was  weary  with  crying  aloud  from  the  West- 

land, 
Faintly  and  fiercely :  "  Brothers  !  will  none  of  you  help 

me?" 

Where  with  hum   and  confusion  scarce  tempered  by 

music, 
The  brilliant  assemblage  thronged  their  chief  man  for 

his  virtue, 
Sudden  she  stood,  like  a  guilty  ghost  at  a  banquet. 
"  I  am  Kansas,"  she  shrieked,  and  her  hand  gave  its 

menace, 
"  Kansas,"   and  seized   the    crisp  locks  for  a  terrible 

shaking. 
"  Me   dost   thou   murder — me   dost   thou    sell   in   thy 

shamble>. 
Coined  from  my  blood  is  the  gold  that  should  keep  thee 

in  power. 


THE    SERMON    OF    SPRING.  13 

Thou  hast  heard  ray  loud  shrieking — hast  counted  my 

struggles ; 
Scarcely  I  hold  from  my  heart  the  death  wound  of  thy 

Bravos. 
Tremble,"  she  cried,  "  tho'  the  battle  seem  thine  for  a 

season, 
Not  a  drop  of  my  blood  shall  be  wanting  to  judge 

thee — 
Tremble,  thou  fallen  from  mercy,  ere  fallen  from  office ; 
The   heart   of  the  Nations   shall  loathe    ere  it  gladly 

forget  thee. 
Known  for  thy  vileness  alone,  and  the  sorrow  it  wrought 

us. 

While  she  yet  spake,  from  the  heaven  God's  thunder 

had  fall'n  ; 
And  I  heard :  M  The  crime,  not  the  paltry  offender  so 

stirs  us." 

m. 

Take  heart,  thou  lone  one — a  champion  leaps  to  defend 
thee, 

Armed  with  the  loftier  issue,  the  art  and  the  moral ; 

Eloquent  lips,  and  the  integral  heart  of  Conviction, 

Powerful  still,  when  the  arm  of  the  spoiler  has  crum- 
bled. 


14  THE    SERMON    OF    SPRING. 

Doctrine  of   Right,  and  the    Old  World  tradition  of 

Freedom — 
Doctrine    of  Justice,    thank    God,  no    New    England 

invention ; 
Known  to  the  Ancients,  known  to  the  Gods  and  their 

poets, 
Known  to  great  Tully,  whose  pillars  of  perfect  marble 
Stand  in  the  temple   of  Truth,  his   remembrance   for 

Ages. 
There  shall  thy  record  be,  Knight  of  the  wronged  and 

the  helpless ; 
There  shall  thy  weapon  be  kept,  with  the  motto :  "  I 

hurled  it." 
How  hast  thou  hardened  the  loving  heart  and  quick 

feelings, 
To  stand  up  and  speak  the  great  spirit-dividing  sen- 
tence, 
To  stand,  a  mark  for  the  thief  and  assassin  to  aim  at. 
More    than   our   envy,  more  than  thy  hope   was  thy 

guerdon — 
Setting  the  seal  of  thy  blood  to  the  word  of  thy  courage. 
If  but  the  pure  of  heart  in  a  pure  cause  should  suffer, 
Sumner,  the  task  thou  hast  chosen  was  thine  for  its 

fitness. 
Never  was  Paschal  victim  more  stainlessly  offered, 
Never  on  milder  brow  gleamed  the  crown  of  the  martyr. 


THE    SERMON    OF   SPRING.  15 

Stand  thence,  a  mark  for  the  better  and  nobler  am- 
bition ; 

For  they  are  holy,  the  wounds  that  the  Southerner  dealt 
thee. 

Count  them  blessed,  and  blessed  the  mother  that  bore 
thee. 

Would  that  the  thing  I  best  love,  aye,  the  son  of  my 
bosom, 

Suffering  beside  thee,  had  shared  the  high  deed  and  its 
glory. 

Shall  we  bend  over  those  wounds  with  our  tears  and 
our  balsams  ? 

Tears  warm  with  rapture,  balsams  of  costliest  clear- 
ness. 

Take  thy  deserving  then — wear  it  for  life  on  thy  fore- 
head ; 

Crowned  with  those  scars  shalt  thou  enter  the  just 
man's  heaven  ; 

Crowned  with  those  scars  shalt  thou  stand  in  the  record 
of  heroes. 

If   earthly   counsel    were    vain,    should    the    heavens 

befriend  thee. 
Sinking  Orion,  cast  out  in  the  wrath  of  the  tyrant, 
Calls  not  in  vain  on  the  dumb  heart  of  Nature  to  help 

him  ; 


16  THE    SERMON    OF  SPRING. 

Lo  !  the  deep  comes  to  his  aid,  and  its  monsters  upbear 
him  ; 

Hesper  stoops  over  the  Ocean  her  long  shining  tresses 

Till  he  is  drawn  by  them  up  to  the  zone  of  her  beauty ; 

And,  like  fair  sisters,  the  stars  close  around  him  for- 
ever. 

IV. 

Scarcely  the  hush  of  horror  gives  way  thro'  the  country, 

Ere  from  the  Westland  breaks  the  wild  war-cry  that 
grieves  us. 

Here  the  oppressor  has  come,  he  has  reaped  his  rude 
harvest, 

And  the  black  ridges  are  left  in  the  desolate  cornfield. 

Low  lies  the  village  ;  the  people  stand,  dull  and  dis- 
heartened, 

Wondering  what  miscreant  shall  march  with  the  banner 
of  Freedom. 

Oh  !  thou  blue  banner  of  God,  with  the  stars  of  thy 
promise, 

Wave  in  thy  fury,  avenge  this  usurping  and  insult ! 

Crack !  thou  crystal !  let  flame  from  the  high  empyrean, 

Sweep  from  the  outraged  earth  the  vile  chief  and  his 
legions. 

Lawrence  is  fallen !  Our  friends  and  our  brothers  are 
murdered  ! 


THE    SERMON    OF    SPRING.  17 

And  your  smug  President  soothly  subscribes  their  death 
warrant. 

Man  !  walk  not  forth,  lest  the  beasts  of  the  meadow- 
upbraid  thee — 

True  to  their  office,  fulfilling  the  task  God  appointed. 

Even  the  mastiff  shall  greet  thee  with  howls  of  deri- 
sion— 

He    who,    left   with    the    treasure,    forsakes    not    its 
keeping — 

Mocking  the  thief,  giving  battle  till  one  of  them  perish. 

Yea !  let  the  meanest  thing  that  is  faithful  deride  him  ; 

Let  stocks  and  stones  thank  God  that  they  cannot  do 
treason* 

Set  him  aside,  my  country !  be  great  and  impeach  him  ! 

Write  out  his  dark  account,  tell  his  deeds  as  he  did 
them. 

Chosen  to  serve  the   people,  his  servants  shall   bind 
them. 

Sworn  to  uphold  the  law,  he  will  cheat  and  degrade  it. 

Blood  has  he  counselled — not  once  but  again  and  often. 

Blood  shall  he  have,  poured  to  God  with  a  holy  inten- 
tion— 

True   blood   of    Seventy-Six,   that   brave    men   have 
bequeathed  us — 

Left  to  be  spent  as  they  spent  it,  freely  for  Freedom. 
2 


18  THE    SERMON    OF    SPRING. 

Hark  !  E'en  the  pulpit  rebukes  the  slow  drowse  of  the 

anthem, 
Praising  of  God,  amid  actions  that  praise  him  in  nowise. 
Here  some  brave  priest  lifts  his  voice ;  the  far  rapine 

and  bloodshed, 
And  murderous  manners  at  home,  move  his  eloquent 

finger. 
"  Shame  on  you  Christians,"  he  cries,  "  if  with  such 

you  have  friendship, 
And,  if  you  be  not  ashamed,  let  your  Pastor  disown 

you." 

Thanks !    good  pastor,  our  tribute   of  thanks  for  thy 

fervor — 
'Tis  but  a  spark — let  it  kindle  the  wide  congregation 
With  that  clear  redness  of  shame  which  hath  grace 

before  Heaven, 
With  that  good  tingling  that  rouses  men's  slumbering 

virtue  ; 
Each  confessing  to  each,  we  were  careless  and  brutish ; 
Sat   unawakened    by,   while    they   hewed   down    our 

brethren. 
Thus,  by  the  sorrowing  face  shall  the  heart  be  made 

better. 
This  is  as  things  should  be — let  the  priest  lead  the 

people, 


THE    SERMON    OF    SPRING.  19 

Stamp  them,   as   melted  wax,   with  high  feeling  and 

purpose. 
"Who  hath  anointed  the  man  who  shall  stand  looking 

Godward, 
That    he    should   pipe   to    the    tune   of  their   wanton 

wishes  ? 
Oh  !  what  a  heathen  Church  shall  we  have  if  men's 

passions, 
Traffic   and   greed,  are   to   measure  the  text  for  the 

preacher. 

v. 
Finite  is  human  help — many  words  are  a  hindrance. 
"Words  for  the  muses  should  bear  the  slow  pressure  of 

patience ; 
Scarcely    one    leaves     them     content,     after     utmost 

endeavor. 
Visit  me  not  with  your  anger,  ye  powers  poetic, 
If,  in  my  hotness  and  haste,  I  have  jarred  your  sweet 

fetters. 
But,  while  your  presence  I  feel,  thrilling  through  and 

above  me, 
Listen  a  moment  longer ;  suspend  your  high  sentence, 
(Towards  which  I  leap,  when  the  daring  is  more  than 

the  danger,) 
While  with  the  name  that  has  grown  to  a  presence 

ideal, 


20  THE    SERMON"    OF    STRING. 

As  with   a  sound  of  sweet  music,  I  pass  from  your 

hearing. 
"Washington !  thou  art  set  as  a  symbol  of  greatness, 
Of  courage  that  boasts  not,  of  honor  that  knows  not 

temptation. 
Thee  all  men   praise — not  a  town  in  thy  multiplied 

country 
That  hath  not  thy  name  and  thy  bust  for  its  empty 

Valhalla. 
How  is  it  with  thee,  calm  looking  down  from  the  death- 
cloud  ? 
Is  not  thy  soul  astound  with  the  praise  and  the  practice? 
Dost  thou  not  point  to  the  niches,  the  wreaths,  and  the 

statues, 
Asking :  "  What  is   it   ye  honor,  who   know  not   my 

maxims  ? 
Mocking  my  spirit,  when  patriots  catch  its  far  echoes. 
Wherefore  these  splendors  ? — the  skill  of  the  draftsman 

and  sculptor — 
Marbles,  whose  whiteness  stands  not  for  your  whiteness 

of  virtue, 
Filth  of  the  market  defiling  the  innermost  temple — 
Wherefore  these  columns  ? — this  dome  that  shall  pierce 

the  high  heaven  ? 
Were   not   the   narrow   walls   wide   enough   for   your 

mercies  ? 


THE    SERMON    OF    SPRING.  21 

Was  not  the  low  roof  too  high  for  your  poor  aspira- 
tions ? 

Can   you   not   see    that    the    heart    of    your    city    is 

meanness  ? 
Give  it  another  name,  lest  it  stand  to  defame  me." 


VI. 

No,  not  "Washington,   springtide  must   end   my  brief 

lesson. 
Sweetness  of  Nature  alone  for  these  woes  can  console 

us. 
Blessed   is   he   who   takes   comfort   in  seed-time   and 

harvest, 
Setting  the  warfare  of  life  to  the  hymn  of  the  seasons. 
In  the  garden,  the  whispering  walls  are  our  refuge, 
Closes  with  music  its  gate  on  the  outer  confusion. 
The  heaped  green  grasses  rise  up  in  their  congregation 
Lifting    their    heads    to    answer    the    sunshine   with 

gladness. 
Birdlings  singing  aloft  in  the  blossom-hung  branches, 
Tell  of  the  promise  in  which  they  bring  up  their  young 

households, 
Tell  of  the  faith  in  which  God  has  deserted  them  never. 
So— we  will   lift   our  heads — these  men  too  are   our 

brothers — 


22  THE    SERMON    OF    SPRING. 

They  should  be  gathered  with  us  in   the  fold  of  the 

Future. 
Heaven  enlighten  their  hearts,  ere  we   close  for  the 

death-tug, 
Flinging  them  far  from  our  bounds  with  their  wrath 

and  their  rapine, — 
As  the  man  tears  from  his  side  the  beloved  who  betrays 

him, 
Lest  her  soft  vices  insensibly  ruin  his  virtue, 
Lest  he  too  fall,   undermined  by  the  white  tooth  of 

falsehood. 
Keep    the    promise   of    Spring,    O !  thou    Father   of 

fathers — 
Give  us,  great  God,  beyond  these  anarchic  convulsions, 
The  high,  synthetic  repose  of  thy  progress  and  order. 


TREMONT  TEMPLE. 

Two  figures  fill  this  temple  to  my  sight, 

Who  e'er  shall  speak,  their  forms  behind  him  stand ; 

One  has  the  beauty  of  our  Northern  blood, 

And  wields  Jove's  thunder  in  his  lifted  hand. 

The  other  wears  the  solemn  hue  of  night 
Drawn  darker  in  the  blazonry  of  pain, 
Blotting  the  gaslight's  mimic  day,  he  slings 
A  dangerous  weapon  too,  a  broken  chain. 

Oh !  what  a  thing  it  was  to  sit  and  hear 
Our  Sumner  pour  the  torrent  of  his  soul ; 
The  broken  thread  and  parcel  of  the  crowd 
Knit  to  one  web — one  passion-colored  whole. 

We  chid  the  tedious  clock  that  told  the  knell 
Of  minutes,  swollen  to  hours,  that  break  and  die  ; 
"  It  is  not  so — Time  listening  waits  for  him — 
Be  still !  "  we  said,  and  passed  its  record  by. 


24  TREMONT    TEMPLE. 

The  evil  thing  he  smote  at,  waited  long 
To  hurl  its  vileness  at  that  Master  brain. 
'T  will  be  a  proud  day  when  we  gather  here, 
(Grant  it,  dear  God!)  to  hear  his  voice  again. 

And,  Douglass,  thou  shalt  own  the  white  man's  debt 
To  thee  and  thine,  half  cancelled,  by  the  rood ; 
The  country  flashes  with  the  Northern  fire, 
And  Sumner  blest  the  banner  with  his  blood. 


SLAVE   ELOQUENCE. 

"Why  shouldst  thou  speak  ?  stand,  and  lift  up  thy  hands, 
That  bear,  before  high  heaven,  a  nation's  crime, 
That  touch  with  fire  th'  electric  chain  of  truth, 
Left  darkly  rusting  in  our  careless  Time. 

Stand,  with  the  burthen  of  thine  ancient  lot 
Poising  thy  pliant  figure,  with  a  smile 
That  hath  a  dark  and  bitter  memory  in't 
Of  suffering  unavenged — wroe  worth  the  while  ! 

Stand,  like  the  prophet's  Christ,  so  grief-possest 
That  silence  shall  atflict  us  more  than  sound  ; 
Express  in  marble  passion,  motionless, 
The  anguish  of  the  fratricidal  wound. 

Thy  cause  needs  no  appealing — wrongs  like  thine 
Nature  makes  dumb  with  greatness — do  they  crave 
The  lowliness  of  Pity  ?  from  all  hearts 
Thou  hast  it  with  this  thought :  here  was  a  Slave. 


26  SLAVE    ELOQUENCE. 

Nay,  speak,  thou  shadowy  Image  !  thou  art  fain 
To  ease  the  throbbing  fulness  of  thy  heart, 
From  lips  that,  not  ungraciously,  essay 
The  white  man's  language,  not  the  white  man's  art. 

Thou  wilt  not  stoop  to  curses  impotent 
And  wild — such  weakness  is  not  for  the  free — 
With  modest  gesture  and  with  manly  phrase 
Make  clear  thy  right — adorn  thy  liberty  ! 

Nor  turn  to  tear  thy  tyrants — thou  hast  learned 
A  lesson  holier  than  wrath  or  hate ; 
Since  the  borne  sorrow  leaves  a  bosom-rift 
Where  gentle  Charity  may  penetrate. 

Thy  speech  doth  to  the  stronger  race  aver 

Some     deathless     favors — Shakspeare's    thought    and 

rhyme, 
The  knitted  bond  and  logic  of  the  law, 
And  Jesu's  words,  the  treasure  of  all  time. 

Speaking,  he  kept  the  measure  of  our  wish. 
But  we  had  deemed  him  eloquent,  unheard, 
For,  looking  on  the  wronged  and  rescued  man, 
His  presence  pleaded  stronger  than  his  word. 


AX  HOUR  IN   THE    SENATE. 

Falls  there  no  lightning  from  yon  distant  heaven 
To  crush  this  man's  potential  impudence  ? 
Shall  not  its  outraged  patience  thunder :  "  Hence  ! 
Forsake  the  shrine  where  Liberty  was  given  ! " 

Shall  he  stand  here,  with  this  defiant  face, 
And  clench  the  fist,  and  shake  the  matted  hair, 
As  if  his  brutal  prowess  centred  there, 
Mocking  at  Justice,  in  her  holy  place  ? 

See  where  he  smiles  !  the  sophism  falls  so  pat ! 
Suits  better  with  his  ends  than  finer  stuff — 
Goes  furthest,  with  the  speech  assured  and  rough- 
Is  false  as  Hell's  deceit — well — what  of  that  ? 

u  The  strong  shall  rule,  the  arm  of  force  have  sway 
The  helpless  multitude  in  bonds  abide —  " 
Again  the  chuckle,  and  the  shake  of  pride — 
"  God's  for  the  stronger — so  great  Captains  say." 


28  AN    HOUR    IN    THE    SENATE. 

Beyond  the  narrow  freehold  of  our  sight 
Methinks,  God  smiles  upon  a  different  wise, 
And  to  the  agonizing  thought  replies  : 
"  Be  of  good  courage — God  is  for  the  right." 

Rings  the  wild  menace  thro'  the  Congress  Halls 
To  die  out  harmless — hath  an  error  friends  ? 
Nay,  hirelings,  who  protect  it  for  their  ends ; 
And  fly  to  shelter,  when  its  falseness  falls. 

Yet,  rise  to  answer,  chafing  in  thy  chair, 
"With  soul  indignant  stirred,  and  flushing  brow. 
Thou  art  God's  candidate — speak  soothly  now, 
Let  every  word  anticipate  a  prayer. 

Gather  in  thine  the  outstretched  hands  that  strive 
To  help  thy  pleading,  agonized  and  dumb ; 
Bear  up  the  hearts  whose  silent  sorrows  come 
For  utterance,  to  the  voice  that  thou  canst  give. 

Theirs  is  an  eloquence  that  cannot  reach 

The  coldness  of  our  distant  sympathies, 

Then,  pluck  them  bleeding  for  the  country's  eyes, 

Speed  with  the  wings  of  universal  speech. 


AN    HOUR    IN    THE    SENATE.  29 

Give  us  their  story  in  untutored  phrase — 

The  idly-learned  of  the  earth  are  here, 

To  hide  with  Reason  what  the  heart  makes  clear, 

While  Truth  stands  stript,  to  meet  th'  Eternal's  gaze. 

And  let  the  scoffer's  feeble  shaft  be  spent — 
Such  shall  stand  silent  in  the  better  day, 
As  faithless  Sarah  stole  her  shame  away, 
When  the  stern  guest  rebuked  her  merriment. 

So  the  true  word  corrects  the  stormy  school. 
God's  angel,  stooping,  rests  his  ruffled  Avings — 
For  this  is  one  of  many  questionings, 
And  one  has  spoken  well — The  rigid  shall  rule. 


THE   SENATOR'S  RETURN. 

How  shall  we  greet  thee  when  thy  task  is  o'er, 
Thy  martyr  task  of  weariness  and  pain, 
When  eyes  that  wept  thy  suffering,  stark  and  sore, 
Shall  see  thee,  stately  and  erect  again. 

There  should  go  forth,  to  crown  thy  lordly  way, 
Glad  youths  and  maidens,  and  the  elders  sage, 
While  garlands  green  and  milk-white  robes  recall 
The  peaceful  triumphs  of  the  Golden  Age. 

We  shall  be  touched  with  heavenly  Charity, 
And  walk  as  Brothers,  reconciled  and  glad, 
Yielding  a  mournful  pity  to  the  wretch, 
Whose  weapon  gave  the  bloody  accolade. 

With  something  of  the  dear  and  tender  joy 
With  which  we  think  to  greet  our  own  above, 
The  pain  and  sharpness  of  the  struggle  o'er, 
And  every  vexing  doubt  resolved  in  Love ; 


THE    SENATOR'S    RETURN.  31 

Shall  we  behold  thee,  scatheless  of  the  Grave, 
But  with  the  halo  of  the  Just  in  sight ; 
Bearing  a  rescued  Goddess  in  thine  arms, 
Thyself  immortal,  wed  with  deathless  Right. 


SLAVE   SUICIDE. 

Should  one  led  up  to  death,  or  fearing  worse, 
Those  tortures  that  make  dying  a  release, 
Anticipate  the  final  boon  of  peace 
By  taking  on  himself  the  murderer's  curse  ? 

If  with  unwavering  purpose  arm'd,  his  hand 
Could  let  the  doomed  captive  from  his  breast, 
And  with  one  purple  pang  reconquer  rest, 
"Were  it  not  Roman,  Brutus-worthy,  grand  ? 

No  !  by  my  faith  in  God,  I  would  not  spare 
My  flesh  one  blow  prophetically  due, 
Nor  snatch  a  respite,  nor  for  mercy  sue, 
Lest  I  should  wrong  th'  Omnipotence  of  prayer 

Lest  I  should  rob  my  soul  of  high  repose 
Earned  by  such  racking  labor  of  the  frame, 
Or  spare  a  miscreant  heart  the  bootless  shame 
With  which  men  see  a  victim's  eyelids  close. 


SLAVE    SUICIDE.  33 

Pursue,  to  depths  of  agony  unknown — 

Strip,  smite  him,  gyved  and  bound,  that  cannot  flee, 

At  one  sure  limit  God  doth  set  him  free, 

And  aimless  Fury  mars  a  form  of  stone. 

Had  this  thy  creed  been  sanctioned,  we  had  lost 
Those  men  and  women  patient  unto  death, 
Twined  in  our  very  rosary  of  Faith, 
God's  jewels,  God's,  who  registers  their  cost. 

Triumphant,  these  abode  the  test  of  fire, 
Were  scourged,  were  branded,  broken  on  the  wheel, 
Pierced  with  sharp  fangs  of  beasts,  or  sharper  steel, 
And  fainted  not  in  hope,  nor  in  desire. 

Nay,  thou  hadst  rifled  thus,  with  hand  profane, 
A  crowning  glory  from  the  Crucified ; 
Where  were  the  healing  from  the  wounded  side, 
If  his  own  hand  the  costly  life  had  ta'en  ? 

He  bore  his  martyrdom  as  God  did  mete, 
Bequeathed  it,  drop  by  drop,  and  part  by  part, 
Ours,  with  the  blissful  brokenness  of  heart 
In  which  we  kneel  to  kiss  the  sinless  feet. 
3 


34  SLAVE    SUICIDE. 

Smile  then  upon  the  scourge,  devoted  friend  ! 
There  comes  a  glory,  wreathed  with  every  stripe. 
His  meed  who  waits  till  his  reward  is  ripe, 
And  crowns  God's  perfect  purpose  in  his  end. 


BALAKLAVA. 

They  gave  the  fatal  order,  Charge ! 
And  so,  the  light  Brigade  went  down, 
Where  bristling  brows  of  cannon  crown 
The  front  of  either  marge. 

Traced  all  in  fire  we  saw  our  way, 
And  the  black  goal  of  Death  beyond — 
It  was  no  moment  to  despond, 
To  question,  or  to  pray. 

Firm  in  the  saddle,  stout  of  heart, 
With  plume  and  sabre  waving  high, 
With  gathering  stride  and  onward  cry, 
The  band  was  swift  to  start. 

They  took  the  field  with  solemn  eye. 
However  wild  the  deed  they  knew, 
However  whoso  bade,  should  rue, 
Their  business  was,  to  die. 


36  BALAKLAVA. 

'T  was  the  old  gallant  English  blood, 
And  many  a  shadowy  ancestor, 
Guarding  his  sculptured  arms  afar, 
That  day  in  memory  stood. 

At  serried  gallop  on  they  press, 
Swerveless  as  pencilled  lines  of  light. 
And  where  a  steed  turns  back  in  fright, 
That  steed  is  riderless. 

They  charged  in  high,  immortal  ire  ! 
The  war-cloud  swallowed  them,  the  young, 
The  brave, — a  handful  widely  flung, 
But  of  heroic  fire. 

They  fell,  unconquered,  nor  in  vain. 
No,  by  the  sacrificial  cost 
Of  Faith  and  Courage,  never  lost, 
Theirs  doth  the  day  remain. 

Reft  heart  of  love,  contain  thy  wound  ! 
Flash,  eyes  !  though  lips  press  close  and  pale 
Still,  mourners !  let  us  hear  no  wail 
Above  the  trumpet's  sound. 


BALAKLAVA. 

Nor  wait  the  sire  to  weep  the  son 
That  bore  his  fortune  and  his  pride, 
Nor  shall  the  mother's  wish  divide 

From  these,  her  cherished  one. 

But  tearful  England  holds  her  breath, 
Listening,  uncomforted,  their  fame, 
Who,  in  the  greatness  of  her  name 
Rode  glorious  unto  death. 


37 


TO  FLORENCE  NIGHTINGALE. 

I  am  not  cold,  my  sister,  in  applause 
Of  one  whose  presence  honors  Queenly  guests  ; 
Who  wears  the  noblest  jewel  of  her  time, 
And  leaves  her  race  a  nobler,  in  her  name. 
I  do  not  swell  thy  triumphs  with  a  wreath, 
Because  thy  weight  of  crowns  is  burthensonie  ; 
And  that  which  henceforth  least  can  be  thy  need 
Is  human  praise,  the  cordial  of  weak  hearts. 
But,  lest  my  silence  should  dispraise  myself, 
I'll  help  its  meaning  with  a  parable. 

A  scene  is  present  to  my  mind,  intense 
With  all  the  joys  the  lyric  drama  gives  ; 
Its  heroine,  fainting  'neath  her  fragrant  spoils. 
Deafened  with  plaudits,  vexed  to  answer  them, 
Since  none  approach  the  conscious  gift  of  Art 
From  whence  these  splendors,  like  a  fountain,  flowed, 
Implores  the  moment  to  forsake  the  stage 
Whose  right  is  what  she  pictures,  not  herself. 


TO    FLORENCE    NIGHTINGALE.  39 

But  lo  !  where  one  of  tardier  impulse  sits 
With  other  blossoms  that  are  hers,  by  right, 
And  waits  a  vacant  moment  for  his  gift. 
She  is  adorned  beyond  her  youth's  desire, 
No  place  about  her  for  a  leaflet  more  ; 
So,  with  a  sudden  thought,  he  flings  the  prize 
To  scatter,  where  the  patient  chorus  stand, 
A  willing  back-ground  to  her  high  relief. 

Strange  joy  and  wonder  seize  those  weary  hearts 
That  do  their  heavy  work  unrecognized. 
"  What,  not  illustrious,  did  you  think  of  us, 
Mere  stony  echoes  of  your  nightingale, 
And  Genius,  that  doth  call  us  for  her  use  ? 
You  knew  us  faithful  in  the  prayer,  the  march, 
The  funeral  dirge,  and  crowned  us  ?  God  reward  ! ' 

Methinks,  a  Prima  Donna  of  your  mind. 

However  earnest  for  her  due  repose, 

Would  turn  the  eyes  that  con  to-morrow's  task 

Beyond  this  evening's  laurels,  bright'ning,  back, 

And  send  this  Praiser  happy  to  his  home 

With  one  approving  look,  whose  warmth  should  say  : 

The  flowers  thus  sent,  fell  nearest  to  my  heart." 


FLORENCE  NIGHTINGALE  AND  HER  PRAISERS. 

If  you  debase  the  sex  to  elevate 
One  of  like  soul  and  temper  with  the  rest, 
You  do  but  wrong  a  thousand  fervent  hearts, 
To  pay  full  tribute  to  one  generous  breast. 

Mercy  belongs  to  us  from  ancient  days — 
Yea — when  the  Human  and  Divine  did  part, 
God  left  the  boon  of  pity  to  the  world, 
And  left  it  garnered  in  a  woman's  heart. 

In  the  old  warrior  times  of  feud  and  fire, 
When  the  fierce  world  in  armour  watched  and  slept, 
Maidens,  high-hearted,  left  the  sumptuous  court, 
And  with  pure  hands  the  sick  man's  pillow  kept. 

In  those  rude  ages,  they  were  fain  to  shield 
Their  holy  virtue  'neath  monastic  vows, 
Now,  England's  daughter,  without  fear  or  blush, 
To  the  wide  world  her  valiant  zeal  avows. 


FLORENCE    NIGHTINGALE    AND    HER    PRAISERS.    41 

Nay,  frailer  women,  strong  in  love  alone, 
Have  followed  as  the  blast  of  battle  led, 
Pressing  on  spear  and  sword  the  ill-armed  breast, 
Content  to  perish  where  their  soldier  bled. 

She  has  sprung  forward,  an  enfranchised  stream 
That  runs  its  errand  in  the  face  of  day ; 
And  where  new  blessings  mark  its  course  benign, 
Men  yield  approval  to  th'  unwonted  way. 

But  she  had  freedom — hearts  akin  to  hers 
Are  held  as  springs  shut  up,  as  fountains  sealed, 
The  weighty  masonry  of  life  must  part 
Before  their  hidden  virtue  be  revealed. 

Women  who  weave  in  hope  the  daily  web, 
Who  leave  the  deadly  depths  of  passion  pure, 
Who  hold  the  stormy  powers  of  will  attent, 
As  Heaven  directs,  to  act,  or  to  endure ; 

No  multitude  strews  branches  in  their  way, 
Not  in  their  praise  the  loud  arena  strives, 
Still  as  a  flameless  incense  rises  up 
The  costly  patience  of  their  offered  lives. 

Such  love  bears  not  the  sunlight  on  its  breast, 
But  by  the  devious  conduit  underneath, 


42    FLORENCE    NIGHTINGALE    AND    HER    PRAISERS. 

It  reaches  you,  unrecognized,  unknown 
Save  in  the  brow  suffused,  and  dewy  breath. 

Then  count  not  the  heroic  heart  alone 
In  those  whom  action  and  result  make  great, 
Since  the  sublime  of  Nature's  excellence 
Lies  in  enduring,  as  achieving  Fate. 


FURTHERMORE. 

We,  that  are  held  of  you  in  narrow  chains, 
Sought  for  our  beauty,  thro'  our  folly  raised 
One  moment  to  a  barren  eminence, 
To  drop  in  dreary  nothingness,  amazed ; 

We,  dwarfed  to  suit  the  measure  of  your  pride, 
Thwarted  in  all  our  pleasures  and  our  powers, 
Have  yet  a  sad,  majestic  recompense, 
The  dignity  of  suffering,  that  is  ours. 

The  proudest  of  you  lives  not  but  he  wrung 
A  woman's  unresisting  form  with  pain, 
While  the  long  nurture  of  your  helpless  years 
Brought  back  the  bitter  childbirth  throes  again. 

We  wait  upon  your  fancies,  watch  your  will, 
Study  your  pleasure,  oft  with  trembling  heart,- 
Of  the  success  and  glory  of  your  lives 
Ye  think  it  grace  to  yield  the  meanest  part. 


44  FURTHERMORE. 

Ev'n  Nature,  partial  mother,  reasons  thus : 
To  these  the  duty,  and  to  those  the  right ; " 
Our  faithful  service  earns  us  sufferance, 
But  we  shall  love  you  in  your  own  despite. 

To  you,  the  thrilling  meed  of  praise  belongs, 
To  us,  the  painfuller  desert  may  fall ; 
We  touch  the  brim,  where  ye  exhaust  the  bowl, 
But  where  ye  pay  your  due,  we  yield  our  all. 

Honour  all  women — weigh  with  reverend  hand 
The  worth  of  those  unproved,  or  overtried, 
And,  when  ye  praise  the  perfect  work  of  One, 
Say  not,  ye  are  shamed  in  her,  but  glorified. 


PRIVATION. 

Of  all  the  workings  of  the  Law  Divine 
Privation  is  most  wearily  outworn  ; 
Harder  than  wounds  that  bleed,  or  pangs  that  tear, 
Tis  Life's  high  treason — generous  Hope  forsworn. 

In  Want  is  woe,  and  sad  vacuity, 
Tis  Aspiration  doubting  of  its  crown  ; 
Yet  who  that  ever  panted  in  th'  ascent 
Would  sit  to  rest,  or  turn  to  cast  him  down  ? 

To  him  who  presses  on,  at  each  degree 
New  visions  rise,  beyond  the  dim  unseen  ; 
Soon  happier  love,  soon  nearer  hope  shall  come, 
And  only  this  slow  suffering  lies  between. 

Some  men  have  wrung  strange  glory  from  the  cloud 
That  was  a  prison  to  their  loneliness ; 
And,  feeding  other  hearts  with  rare  delight, 
Kept  for  themselves  their  hunger  and  distress. 


46  PRIVATION. 

The  blind  majestic  bard,  whose  tearless  eyes 
Were  patient  in  the  weariness  of  night ; 
And  one,  his  brother  in  a  kindred  art, 
Bereft  of  melody,  as  he  of  light ; 

Fruition  was  not  for  them  to  the  sense — 
The  world  for  one,  for  one  the  swelling  tone ; 
"  We  work — "  they  said,  and  in  high  toil  abode, 
And :  "  we  have  wrought,"  they  uttered,  and  passed  on. 

My  Milton  !  thou  whose  holy  heart  forbore 
The  doubtful  rite  of  uncongenial  shrines, 
But  gave  the  perfect  tribute  of  its  faith, 
Before  thee  now  the  true  Shekinah  shines. 

Seeking  a  nearer  moral  for  my  song, 
I  find  two  poets  of  the  latter  days, 
Branded  by  Nature  with  the  fatal  gift, 
Pilgrims  from  birth,  but  in  divergent  ways. 

This  rode  his  blood's  high  mettle  to  the  full, 
Goading  satiety  with  unblest  wine  ; 
This  to  a  meeker  measure  moved  along, 
Palm-heralded,  as  Christ  in  Palestine. 


PRIVATION.  47 

This,  like  a  meteor,  streamed  abroad  in  air, — 
This,  like  a  star,  abode  in  distant  light ; 
The  one  scared  noonday  with  his  crimson  glare, 
The  other  was  the  beacon-guide  of  night. 

The  one  with  lordly  gesture  trod  the  earth, 
Gathering  all  pleasure,  innocent  or  ill ; 
The  other  bared  his  reverend  brow  to  heav'n, 
And  gleaned  from  Nature  with  a  sober  will. 

The  one  awoke  the  echoes  of  the  Past, 
Those  sacred  voices  of  the  marble  halls, 
And  bade  them  bear  a  demon-strophe  wild 
To  mock,  afar,  his  gray  ancestral  walls. 

The  other  was  penurious  of  his  days 
In  those  fair  hills,  beneath  that  friendly  heaven ; 
His  were  the  deep,  synthetic  harmonies, 
The  joy  of  task  and  recompense  God-given. 

One,  in  a  wild  convulsion  ceased  to  be, 
And  if  he  went  to  bane  or  bliss,  none  knew  ; 
The  other  stood,  serenely  crowned  with  age, 
And  steadfast  passed  to  God,  if  God  be  true. 


48  PRIVATION. 

Oh !  at  the  Muse-crowned  temple  of  the  one, 
And  at  the  other's  lonely  sepulchre 
Pause  thou,  my  soul,  and  ponder  deeply  thence 
The  paths  of  Fate,  and  choosing,  dare  not  ei-f . 

Hast  thou  the  high,  heroic  heart  to  walk, 
Or  wait,  receptive  of  the  distant  tone  ! 
Or  wouldst  thou  sit  to  revel,  and  crush  out 
Lifeblood  of  others,  mingled  with  thine  own  ? 

"Wilt  thou  rest  guardian  of  these  simpler  loves, 
Leading  the  dull,  the  passionless,  the  weak  ? 
Or,  desperate,  rush  to  Lido's  charmed  shore, 
To  fling  wild  kisses  on  a  hireling's  cheek  ? 

Oh !  treasured  in  the  hand  that  cannot  fail 
Let  thy  poor  life,  through  want  and  waiting  lie, 
Radiant  in  anguish,  comforted  of  tears, 
If  the  deep  voice  but  whisper :  it  is  I. 


ON  RECEIVING  A  VOLUME  PUBLISHED  AFTER 
THE  DEATH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

They  bring  a  volume,  precious  with  thy  name 
And  latest  records — all  that  Love  can  save. 
While  the  snow  falls  upon  the  two-years'  grave 
Where  thy  dear  ashes  careless  He  of  Fame. 

What  for  thy  bitter  loss  shall  make  amends 
In  these  sad  pages  ?  Wert  thou  yet  on  earth 
One  happy  hour  should  give  us  thrice  their  worth, 
So  far  the  living  word  all  else  transcends. 

I  did  not  ask  such  notings  of  thy  thought ; 
Holding  more  dear,  with  Love's  own  jealousy, 
The  vivid  doctrine  that  thou  gavedst  me, 
When  flashing  look,  and  fiery  gesture  taught. 

Thus  bring  they,  gathered  from  Samaria's  well. 
A  droplet  that  avails  no  thirst  to  slake, 
Yet  men  shall  deem  it  blessed,  for  his  sake 
Whose  shadowed  sunlight  on  the  waters  fall. 
4 


50  ON    RECEIVING   A    VOLUME 

These,  thy  recorded  musings,  wake  again 
The  heart's  deep  longing  for  a  music  gone ; 
Thy  vibrant  voice,  whose  clear  attempered  tone 
Was  like  the  martyr's  rapture-cry  in  pain. 

Shattered  lies  now  the  heav'n-strung  instrument — 
Sure,  Death  must  grow  harmonious  on  the  spot ; 
While,  at  the  grave  that  holds,  but  has  thee  not, 
Sad  Echo,  waiting,  o'er  the  urn  is  bent. 

To  that  far  shrine,  through  all  the  Winter's  woe, 
With  hands  enclasped,  that  strive  to  lift  on  high 
Affections  born  and  centred  humanly, 
In  solemn,  measured  cadence  would  I  go  ; 

Making  thy  grave  a  station  to  mine  own, 
Seeking  in  depths  of  prayer  some  deathless  thought, 
Some  jewel  of  the  soul,  divinely  wrought, 
To  hang  where  purest  gems  have  place  alone. 

But,  held  by  ties  that  let  me  not  depart 
On  Grief's  wild  sweeping  pinions  any  whither, 
I  can  but  send  my  pilgrim  wishes  thither, 
Folding  thy  dear,  dumb  volume  to  my  heart. 


AFTER  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  AUTHOR.      51 

Not  each  for  each  can  live,  but  each  for  other, — 


Only  the  dead  in  God  are  isolate  ; 

He  shall  accord  me  patience  for  my  fate 

Whose  holy  rest  doth  gather  thee,  my  Brother. 


VIA  FELICE. 

'T  was  in  the  Via  Felice 

My  friend  his  dwelling  made, 

The  Roman  Via  Felice, 

Half  sunshine,  half  in  shade. 

A  marble  God  stands  near  it 
That  once  deserved  a  shrine, 

And,  veteran  of  the  old  world, 
The  Barberini  pine. 

A  very  Roman  is  he 

Whom  Age  makes  not  so  wise 
But  that  each  coming  winter 

Is  still  a  new  surprise. 

But  I  lodged  near  the  Convent 
Whose  bells  did  hallow  noon, 

And  all  the  lesser  hours 
With  sweet  recurrent  tune. 


VIA    FELICE.  .A> 

They  lent  their  solemn  cadence 

To  all  the  thoughtless  day  ; 
The  heart,  so  oft  it  heard  them, 

Was  lifted  up  to  pray. 

And  where  the  lamp  was  lighted 

At  twilight,  on  the  wall, 
Serenely  sat  Madonna, 

And  smiled  to  bless  us  all. 

Those  voices,  illustrating 

Their  bargains,  from  the  street, 
Shaming  Thought's  narrow  meanness 

With  music  infinite. 


Those  men  of  stately  stature, 
Those  women,  fair  of  shape, 

That  watched  the  chestnuts  roasting 
The  fig,  and  clustered  grape  ; 

All  this,  my  daily  pleasure 
That  made  none  poor  to  give, 

Was  near  the  Via  Felice 
Where  Horace  loved  to  live. 


54  VIA    FELICE. 

I  see  him  from  the  window 
That  ne'er  my  heart  forgets, 

He  buys  from  yonder  maiden 
My  morning  violets. 

Not  ill  he  chose  those  flowers 
With  mild,  reproving  eyes, 

Emblems  of  tender  chiding, 
And  love  divinely  wise. 

For  his  were  generous  learning, 
And  reconciling  Art ; 

Oh  !  not  with  fleeting  presence 
My  friend  and  I  could  part. 

His  work  of  consolation 
Abode  when  he  was  gone, 

A  tower  of  Beauty  lifted 
From  ruins  widely  strewn. 


Our  own  inconstant  heavens 
Were  o'er  us,  when  we  met 

Before  a  longer  parting, 

Not  seen,  nor  dreamed  of,  yet. 


VIA    FELICE.  Oi) 

'T  was  when  the  Spring's  soft  breathing 

Restores  the  frozen  sense, 
And  Patience,  dull  with  Winter, 

Is  glad  in  recompense. 

There,  in  our  pleasant  converse, 

As  by  one  thought,  we  said  : 
This  is  the  Via  Felice, 

Where  friends  together  tread. 


Again,  my  friend  turned  seaward, 
Again,  athwart  the  wave 

He  flung  the  wayward  fortune 
His  fiery  planet  gave. 

And,  in  that  heart  of  Paris 
That  hides  distress  and  wrong 

So  cold,  with  show  and  splendor, 
So  dumb,  wTith  dance  and  song ; 

Drawn,  by  some  hidden  current 

Of  unknown  agony, 
To  seek  a  throb  responsive, 

Our  Horace  sank  to  die. 


•  Hi  VIA    FELICE. 

Oh  !  not  where  he  is  lying 
With  dear  ancestral  dust, 

Not  where  his  household  traces 
Grow  sad  and  dim  with  rust; 

But  in  the  Ancient  City 

And  from  the  quaint  old  door, 

I'm  watching,  at  my  window 
His  coming,  evermore. 

For  Death's  Eternal  city 
Has  yet  some  happy  street, 

'T  is  in  the  Via  Felice 

My  friend  and  I  shall  meet. 


DILEXIT    MULTUM. 

Could  I  portray  thy  face,  illuminate 
With  the  high  glory  that  it  had  for  me, 
Or  deathless  carve,  in  marble's  sainted  state, 
The  record  of  thy  vanished  majesty ; 

Or  could  I,  like  the  grief-inspired  of  old, 
Dream  out  some  Minster  of  divinest  form, 
Arch  within  arch,  to  cherish  and  enfold 
Love's  passing  holiness  from  waste  or  worm ; 

Or  could  I  rear  towards  heav'n  a  life  of  good, 
Whose  date  were  from  our  meeting,  faultless,  strong, 
With  every  thought  sublimed  and  prayer-endued, 
The  annals  of  my  days  should  praise  thee  long. 

But  gifts  like  these  I  have  not,  to  embalm, 
Enshrine,  englorify  thy  memory  ; 
Only,  from  stammering  lips,  the  fitful  psalm 
Whose  music  wavers,  when  it  speaks  of  thee. 


58  DILEXIT    MULTUM. 

Yet  take  my  offering — Nature's  simple  skill 
Shall  stead  for  thee  the  perfect  form  of  Art, 
And  my  love's  record,  like  to  Mary's,  dwell 
Rich  in  the  shattered  vase  and  lavish  heart. 


THE    PARK. 

When  the  earliest  star  of  evening  breaks  the  gloom  of 
twilight  skies, 

And  to  meet  its  fresh  effulgence,  we  lift  up  day- 
wearied  eyes, 

Eyes  on  which  Life  hangs  its  burthen,  Sleep  can  loose 
as  well  as  Death, 

Then  a  spirit,  passing  near  me,  pauses,  breathing  gentle 
breath. 

Come  thou  where  the  giant  shadows  shall  enclose  thee 

with  their  arms, 
Where  the  silence  shields  from  sinful  thoughts  as  angels 

guard  from  harms  ; 
Not  with  laughter  and  companions,  flaunting  in  the  light 

of  Day, 
Come,  a   vesper  Nun  at  even,   to  remember  and   to 

pray. 


60  THE    PARK. 

Come  with  hands   clasped  full    of    meekness,  let  thy 

stately  robings  fall 
Till   the   dust   of  grief  besmirch    them,    wear   Love's 

cypress,  bear  his  pall ; 
Bring  thy  perfumes — let  them  mingle  with  the  costly 

gift  of  tears, 
They  should  solemnize  a  sorrow  that  makes  poor  the 

coming  years. 

Here  where,  broidered  like  a  blazon  on  the  scutcheon 

of  a  shrine, 
Gainst   the    fading    sky    so   pearly,    sable    shows    the 

tapering  pine, 
Here    where   dies   the   wind   the   softest,  like    hushed 

pinions  of  a  dove, 
I  will   fold   thee,  oh   beloved !    in   the   fervor   of  my 

love. 

I  will  lead  thee  where  we   wandered,  in  the  time  long 

tied  away, 
Thou  shalt  rest  where  we  were  wont  to  shield  us  from 

the  summer  day  ; 
It  was  gorgeous  in    its  beauty,  but  a  joyaunce  more 

divine 
Filled  the  heart  of  one  whose  fingers  bore  the  tendril 

clasp  of  thine. 


THE    PAKE.  Gl 

Leave  thy  tremblings,  leave  thy  doubtings,  let  thy  sins 

stand  out  of  sight ; 
They    are    quick    enough    to    seize    thee — Law    and 

Conscience  claim  their  right ; 
Rest  one  moment  from  the  summing  thy  offences  and 

thy  meed, 
Leave   the  weary  task  to  Love  whose  grace  is  wider 

than  thy  need. 

Gather  tender  thoughts  about  thee,  gather  holy  hope 

and  power, 
Call  the  names  of  all  thy  dear  ones,  let  them  keep  with 

thee  this  hour, 
Hold  the   shadows  of  thy  children  in  thine  arms  and 

on  thy  knee, 
With    the    rapture,    dear    and    costly,    that    attends 

Nativity. 

« 
Soft,  the  angels  close  around  thee — so,  thou  walkest 

dream-pursued, 
Golden    cords    of    help    unwinding,    in    the    circling 

solitude, 
Seest  stars  immortal  kindling  irom  the  failing  suns  that 

set, 
And   believest,   though   thy   friend   is   gone,    his   love 

surrounds  thee  vet. 


62 


THE    PARK. 


Passing  hence,  thou  envyest  nought  of  theirs  that  rule 

this  fair  domain, 
Since  treasures  that  are  hid  to  them,  to  thee  unlock 

again  ; 
Joy  of  dear  and  duteous  mourning,  joy  of  vagueness 

and  of  gloom, 
Joy  of  Friendship  that  deserved  to  leave  no  fellow  in 

its  room. 


FANNY  KEMBLE'S   CHILD. 

As  I  was  fain  to  wile  a  summer's  day 
With  Shakspeare's  Juliet  folded  in  my  lap, 
And  for  her  accents,  strove  to  call  up  thine. 
An  unexpected  music  to  my  thoughts 
Answered — the  matchless  laugh  of  Maidenhood  ; 
"While  looking  from  the  pondered  page,  I  saw 
Of  the  strange  growths  of  Time  and  Nature,  one. 
It  had  thy  brow  in  little,  and  thine  eyes 
But  new  created,  offering  gentleness  ; 
Ev'n  thy  brown  locks,  with  youth's  half  risen  sun 
Still  gilding  them  aslant.     "  Who  should  this  be 
But  Fanny  Kemble's  Daughter  ?  "  said  my  heart, 
Ere  others  came  to  tell  her  parentage. 

Tears  waited  on  the  vision.     Woful  child  ! 
Thy  Mother  scarcely  knows  thy  countenance, 
Remodelled  from  its  baby  lineaments  ; 
And  I,  a  stranger,  hold  with  grasp  profane 
A  hand,  that  she  should  almost  die  to  touch. 
Wherefore  is  she  thy  Mother  ?  unto  her 


64 


The  Poet's  word  :  "  Bring  forth  male  children  only,' 

Should  seem  the  fittest  sentence.     As  I  mused, 

I  heard,  but  heeded  not,  her  careless  talk, 

Till  mine  own  children  climbed  upon  my  knee, 

Whom  with  a  Mother's  foolery  I  fondled, 

Calling  them  Puss  and  Pug,  and  Slug,  and  Bear, 

Berating  them  with  mimic  violence, 

And  silly  buffets,  to  be  coaxed  with  kissing. 

As  with  a  swift  remembrance,  said  the  Girl, 

"  Why,  that  is  like  my  Mother !  "  and  grew  sad. 

Oh  !  many-passioned  Woman — fervid  soul ! 
Thou,  rich  in  all  save  Meekness — strong  in  all 
Save  that  strong  Patience  which  outvvearies  Fate, 
And  makes  Gods  quail  before  its  constancy. 
Which  was  forgotten  in  thy  gifts  of  birth? 
Of  all  the  powers  the  greatest  only — Love. 

What  voice  makes  music  in  the  childless  breast 
Which  thine  own  Diapason  cannot  fill  ? 
Has  Conscience  ne'er  a  moral  for  the  void  ? 
Do  thy  forsaken  ones  cry  out  to  thee 
For  the  brave  nurture  left  aside  one  day 
To  follow  stormy  feeling  round  the  world  ? 
Or  gatherest  thou,  from  thine  own  infancy, 
Nature  shall  take  thy  glorious  foundlings  up, 


FANNY    KEMBLE'S    CHILD.  Go 

Proving  a  wiser  and  a  tenderer  nurse 

Than  thou,  self-tortured,  and  self-comforting  ? 

Oh  !  wander  where  thou  wilt,  thou  must  return 

From  the  flushed  conquests  of  a  thousand  fields, 

Vanquished  at  last  of  sorrow,  as  creeps  back 

From  her  wild  course  the  wounded  Lioness, 

That  Death  may  find  her,  crouching  near  her  young. 

Peace  wait  upon  thee  where  thou  seekest  it — 
At  the  world's  altar,  or  the  Convent  grate. 
But  while  thou  walkest,  Time  doth  follow  on 
With  lessons  that  are  slow  and  great  to  learn. 
Lessons  of  human  weakness,  and  life's  woe  ; 
The  impotence  of  Anger,  the  divine 
Of  Pardon,  and  th'  unconquerable  power 
Fixed  in  the  waiting,  philosophic  eye. 
As  Fate's  kaleidoscopic  angles  turn 
Thou  shalt  behold  great  burthens  poised  and  held 
In  smallest  grasp,  thro'  "Wisdom's  leverage. 
Thou  shalt  allow  what  patient  hearts  attend 
The  helpless  cradle,  without  hope  or  love 
Between  its  narrow  bounds,  and  God's  immense. 
What  painful  fingers  spin  the  duteous  web 
With  little  comfort,  for  the  weal  of  such 
As  give  no  passing  smile  in  recompense, 
But  take  the  garment  to  their  frigid  souls, 
5 


66  FANNY    KEMBLE'S    CHILD. 

Saying,  "  it  scarcely  warms  me."     Thou  shalt  learn 
What  Women,  glorified  thro'  tears,  have  gone 
Uncanonized  of  men,  to  that  best  heaven 
Where  God  consoles  His  martyrs. 

One  who  walked 
From  the  throne's  splendor  to  the  bloody  block, 
Said :  "  this  completes  my  glory,"  with  a  smile 
Which  still  illuminates  men's  thoughts  of  her. 
When  such  as  we  supremely  love  and  trust 
Meet  the  last  struggle  on  their  outward  way, 
'Tis  the  last  look  of  deathless-loving  eyes, 
The  parting  gesture  of  unconquered  Faith, 
That  o'er  the  bitter  waters  beckon  us, 
Wringing  fond  hearts  with  vague  imaginings, 
Making  unblest  the  limits  that  forbid 
Aught  save  our  longing  souls  to  follow  them. 

Grief  hath  its  wanderings — pass  and  pardon  mine. 

Thine  was  the  lot  of  Woman,  only  thou 

Wert  more  than  Woman  in  thy  haughty  will, 

And  less  than  Woman,  in  humility. 

Battling  for  higher  tasks,  and  loftier  praise, 

Thy  matchless  office  was  unknown  of  thee. 

A  helpful  partner  ?  whence  are  mightiest  laws 

But  of  opposing  forces,  greatly  wed  ? 

A  nurse  of  Babies  ?  what  is  Nature  else  ? 


FANNY    KKMBLE'S    CHILD.  (>7 

See,  the  stars  nestle  in  the  down  of  Night, 
And,  from  the  calm  of  one  wide  Mother-breast 
Doth  holy  sleep  reconsecrate  the  world. 

Did  torture  go  beyond  the  powers  of  life, 

Could  one  not,  dying,  look  such  mild  reproach 

As  looks  a  slave  in  his  tormentor's  eyes, 

Who  sees,  thro'  tears  and  blood,  God's  pardon  near? 

The  tree  that  sheds  its  blossoms  ere  their  time, 

Bears  not  the  Autumn  glory  of  its  fruit. 

The  drop  that  in  its  cavern  cannot  wait 

The  infiltration  of  a  thousand  years 

Shall  never  shine,  a  diamond.     Earth  herself, 

Hoarding  rebellion,  were  chaotic  still, 

Foiled  of  her  beauty,  joyless,  purposeless. 

Oh  friend  !  Life  is  creation  to  the  end, 

And  we  beget  ourselves  in  agony 

A  thousand  times,  to  one  ancestral  soul. 

I  cannot  be  thy  Teacher,  nor  would  ask 
Unwilling  lips  to  take  their  text  from  mine. 
But  wonder  seizes  on  my  thoughts,  and  fear, 
When,  in  the  Drama  of  our  destinies, 
A  soul  like  thine  is  summoned  to  the  front, 
And  maddens  with  the  passion  of  its  part. 


68  FANNY    KEMBLE'S    CHILD. 

The  gaslights  flutter,  and  the  benches  whirl, 
The  music  sobs  its  insufficiency  ; 
Some  shout  applause,  some  sit  convulsed  and  still, 
While  heavenly  Art,  with  awful  eyes  intent, 
Waits  to  pronounce  the  sentence  of  the  world. 


THE    SMOOTH  PORTRAIT. 

How  lightly  hast  thou  learned  of  human  grief! 
Thy  flesh  has  'scaped  the  sacrificial  knife — 
Men  quote  the  pride  of  a  too  happy  life 
To  set  thy  even  virtues  in  relief. 

The  brow's  serenity — the  head  thrown  back 
That  the  audacious  eyes  may  smile  to  heaven ; 
The  mouth,  with  not  one  tender  muscle  riven 
By  the  impatient  torture  of  the  rack  ; 

A  joy  self-continent,  that  overflows 
The  marble  of  the  face,  for  Beauty's  sake  ; 
Heroic  laughter,  such  as  Day  might  wake 
In  a  God's  heart,  with  rosy,  ringing  blows. 

Oh  !  happy  soul — upon  thy  placid  breast 
The  worn  eye  sinks,  and  has  so  much  of  calm, 
While  the  clear  voice  is  medicine  and  balm 
To  heal  the  aguish  fever  of  unrest. 


70  THE    SMOOTH    PORTRAIT. 

Yet  are  there  closets  of  the  inner  shrine 
Where  we  are  bidden  from  the  flowery  day, 
To  stand  and  give  the  awful  voices  sway, 
And,  holding  by  God's  hand,  must  part  from  thine. 


THE  KOUGH  SKETCH. 

A  great  grieved  heart,  an  iron  will, 
As  fearless  blood  as  ever  ran ; 
A  form  elate  with  nervous  strength 
And  fibrous  vigour, — all  a  man. 


A  gallant  rein,  a  restless  spur, 
The  hand  to  wield  a  biting  scourge  ; 
Small  patience  for  the  tasks  of  Time, 
Unmeasured  power  to  speed  and  urge. 

He  rides  the  errands  of  the  hour, 
But  sends  no  herald  on  his  ways ; 
The  world  would  thank  the  service  done, 
He  cannot  stay  for  gold  or  praise. 

Not  lavishly  he  casts  abroad 
The  glances  of  an  eye  intense, 
And,  did  he  smile  but  once  a  year, 
It  were  a  Christmas  recompense. 


72  THE    ROUGH    SKETCH. 

I  thank  a  poet  for  his  name, 
The  "  Down  of  Darkness,"  this  should  be 
A  child,  who  knows  no  risk  it  runs, 
Might  stroke  its  roughness  harmlessly. 

One  helpful  gift  the  Gods  forgot, 
Due  to  the  man  of  lion-mood  ; 
A  woman's  soul,  to  match  with  his 
In  high  resolve  and  hardihood. 


MYSTIC— NOT  MYSTERIOUS. 

Me  shalt  thou  quicken  unto  life  renewed, 
Thou  living  brightness,  falling  on  dead  faith ; 
Scattering  my  patient  gloom,  as  one  returned 
From  golden  travels  his  glad  lesson  saith, 
And,  telling  of  far  climes,  and  faery  pleasures, 
Makes  rich  the  hearer's  heart  with  fancied  treasures. 

A  circling  star  that  comes  with  counted  years, 
Bringing  the  heavens  unnumbered  to  our  sight, 
Startling  our  twilight  with  immortal  joys 
For  which  we  wrestle  with  the  spell  of  night, 
Fling  off  the  measured  burthen  of  our  sleeping, 
And  walk  the  deathless  fields  in  angels'  keeping. 

Nay,  be  not  mortal,  do  not  bend  to  me, 

Nor  nod  too  friendly  from  thy  shining  plain  ; 

I  am  with  my  own  lowliness  at  home, 

That  thou  shouldst  stoop  to  mete  with  it,  were  pain. 

So,  let  me  hold  thee  in  thine  own  belonging, 

Where  reverential  eyes  can  do  no  wronging. 


74  MYSTIC — NOT    MYSTERIOUS. 

Since  last  this  gem  was  in  our  crystal  set, 

It  hath  a  lustre  doubly  great  and  wide  ; 

As  all  pure  essence  gathers  purity, 

A  lesser  planet  is  his  duteous  bride  ; 

Ah  !  does  she  know  his  glory  as  I  breathe  it, 

And  cherish  more — her  heart  should  faint  beneath  it. 

There  are  who  throng  thy  footsteps,  while  I  sit 
Intent  on  oft-remembered  words  of  thine  ; 
Thou  growest  familiar  to  their  careless  sight, 
And  yet  thy  presence  is  not  theirs,  but  mine  ; 
A  boon  held  from  me,  for  its  very  nearness — 
A  joy  beyond  all  joys,  of  dread  and  dearness. 

No  more — too  costly  is  my  love  for  thee 
To  sow  in  words  that  other  hearts  may  reap. 
Love  shall  be  pardoned  if  he  husband  love, 
Hoarding  the  inward  sweetness  he  would  keep 
To  feed  the  hunger  of  unlightened  hours — 
Who  misses  it  ?  the  bee's  theft  from  the  flowers. 

No  more — a  music  long  forborne  came  near 
To  wake  the  frost-bound  pulses  of  delight ; 
And  thy  pale  brow,  and  weirdly  golden  locks 
Passed  as  a  glorious  warning  of  the  night. 
Keep  my  vows,  Spirit,  in  thy  distant  heaven  ; 
I  have  thy  pledge  of  peace — my  heart  is  shriven. 


MAUD. 

Baby  with  the  hat  and  plume, 
And  the  scarlet  cloak  so  fine, 
Come  where  thou  hast  rest  and  room, 
Little  Baby  mine. 

Whence  those  eyes  so  crystal  clear  ? 
Whence  those  curls  so  silky  soft  ? 
Thou  art  Mother's  darling  dear, 
I  have  told  thee  oft. 

I  have  told  thee  many  times, 
And  repeat  it  yet  again, 
Wreathing  thee  about  with  rhymes, 
Like  a  flowery  chain  ; 

Rhymes  that  sever  and  unite 
As  the  blossom  fetters  do. 
As  the  Mother's  weary  night 
Happy  days  renew. 


76  MAUD. 

Like  a  silvery  vision  thou, 
Twinkling,  as  a  distant  star, 
And  the  lustre  on  thy  brow 
Shineth  from  afar. 

Like  a  sunbeam  in  the  room, 
Creeping  near  thy  mother's  heart; 
Shade  of  discontent  or  gloom 

Comes  not  where  thou  art. 

Could  I  paint  thee  with  a  word, 
Pattern  thee  in  dainty  phrase, 
Thou  transfigured  humming-bird, 
Gem  with  spirit-blaze  ! 

Like  a  gracious  prophecy 

Sped  where  darkling  caverns  yawn, 

Like  a  cheerless  winter  sea 

Flushed  with  crimson  dawn  ; 

Thine  unwonted  coming  brought 
More  than  Nature's  rapture-right ; 
From  the  depth  of  darkness,  taught 
God  could  bring  the  light — 


MAUD.  77 


Fate  that  visits  us  and  grieves, 
Parts  from  us,  love-reconciled, 
And  the  wrack  of  sorrow  leaves 
The  glory  of  the  child. 


PARTING    FROM    BABT. 

The  bud's  mysterious  beauty 
The  flower  doth  seem  to  lose, 
The  tender  springtide  greenness 
The  ripening  sun  must  use  ; 
For  fruits  of  nobler  daring 
Fall  blossoms  of  the  heart, 
And  thou  must  change,  my  Baby, 
All  perfect  as  thou  art. 

What  ghosts  of  bitter  Fancy 
My  child  has  chased  away ; 
First  with  her  helpless  pleading, 
Then  with  her  fairy  play  ; 
A  child  of  consolation 
Whose  presence  fair  and  pure, 
Made  in  these  months  of  nursing 
So  much  of  heav'n  secure. 


78  MAUD. 

But  I  must  lose  thee,  Baby, 
As  sprite  is  lost  in  soul, 
As  drops  that  glitter,  singly, 
Lie  gleamless  in  their  whole — 
Life  waits  to  take  thy  measure 
Of  bosom  and  of  brain, 
Fits  for  thy  tiny  muscles 
The  aye-increasing  strain. 

Thy  sins  that  are  so  pretty 
Must  give  sad  virtues  place, 
And  many  a  weary  errand 
Restrain  thy  wanton  grace ; 
Till,  for  a  ruder  harvest, 
Thy  charms  shall  ripened  be, 
And  Baby,  grown  a  Woman 
Is  wooed  away  from  me. 

Oh  !  think  of  me,  my  darling, 
With  thine  own  child  at  thy  breast 
How  soft  I  soothed  thy  wailing, 
How  jealous,  watched  thy  rest, — 
And  read  these  foolish  verses 
That  keep  the  mother's  eye 
From  the  small  empty  cradle 
Where  Baby's  wont  to  lie. 


MAUD.  79 


baby's  return. 


Welcome  ugain  to  thy  father's  roof- 
Thou  dreamer  of  innocent  dreams ! 
Flower  of  pure  and  constant  breath, 
Shadow  of  sunniest  gleams  ! 


&* 


With  the  eyes  that  speak  for  the  untried  lips, 
And  the  little,  stammering  tongue, 
And  the  arms,  like  an  amulet  of  price, 
O'er  the  Mother's  shoulders  flung  ; 

And  the  curls  that  ring,  like  silver  bells, 
With  the  voice's  silvery  chime, 
Each  counted  and  combed,  none  broken  yet 
In  the  weary  tangle  of  time. 

$fc  -ffc  vfc  "^r  vfc  rfc  yfc  ^ 

Thy  beauty  shall  train  its  blossom  wreath 

O'er  the  homely  fetters  of  care, 

While  the  household  angels  that  cling  round  thy 

path 
Shall  lighten  the  burthen  of  prayer. 


LOVE  IN  EXILE. 

Since  ye  have  banished  Beauty  from  my  soul, 
I  wander  in  a  faint  and  drear  amaze  ; 
Gone  are  the  ancient,  the  familiar  ways, 
Strained  the  fine  bonds  of  sufferance  and  control. 

The  utterness  of  sorrow  none  can  know 

Who  have  one  help,  assured,  tho'  distant  far ; 

One  fiery  love,  concentred  to  a  star — 

Night  should  be  sombre  that  such  stars  may  show. 

They  venture  evil  that  they  little  guess, 
Who  hide  that  shining  mercy  from  our  eyes  ; 
What  though  it  mark  a  dreamer's  paradise  ? 
It  is  a  world  'twixt  us  and  nothingness. 

Since  they  are  gone,  the  blissful  sights  and  sounds, 
All  hideous  forms  of  ill  assail  my  mind  ; 
I  hear  the  Demon's  subtle  speech  behind, 
I  see  the  Present's  atheistic  bounds. 


LOVE    IX    EXILE.  81 

And  then,  I  cast  a  shuddering,  pitying  look 
Upon  the  fall'n — perhaps  their  virtue  strove 
To  bridge  th'  abyss  with  daring  and  high  love, 
And,  failing,  perished  in  the  leap  they  took. 

In  this  divorce  from  Beauty  lies  a  wrong — 
I  must  deny  her,  I  who  hold  her  faith 
Deep  in  my  heart,  and  fervent  unto  death, 
While  she  is  outlawed  from  my  sight  and  song. 

My  mortal  frame  is  welded  to  her  might, 
And  my  soul  worships,  as  a  captive  does, 
Who  murmurs  holy  words  'mid  heathen  foes, 
While  cruel  hands  forbid  the  happy  rite. 

A  sentry,  forced  to  keep  a  foreign  door, 
A  soldier  to  an  alien  banner  sold, 
A  priest  to  whom  the  shrine  is  void  and  cold, 
Are  of  the  things  men  mock  at,  or  deplore. 

Eager  to  check,  and  tireless  to  reprove, 

Pause,  ere  you  scare  the  meanest  from  his  right, — 

God  gives  to  each  his  measure  of  delight, 

To  every  nature  its  appropriate  love. 


MORNING. 

I'll  have  thee  greet  me  in  thine  early  hours  ; 
The  dew  of  morning  thrilling  in  thy  words, 
And  the  first  music  of  the  wakened  birds 
That  pant  at  noon,  and  hang  their  heads  at  even ; 
Thou,  radiant  in  the  first  surprise  of  heaven, 
And  the  sweet  shock  of  re-created  powers, 
Shalt  welcome  me,  with  thought  and  hope  returning, 
Ere  Day  has  set  his  weary  task  of  learning, 
While,  on  the  breezy  vantage,  standing  free, 
Thou  renderest  glad  obeisance  to  the  Sun  ; 
Thus  shalt  thou  meet  th'  impulsive  bound  of  one 
Who,  thanking  God  for  life,  forgets  not  thee. 


WHAT  I  HAVE.    , 

In  this  world  of  hasty  knowing,  in  this  world  of  doubt 

and  dread, 
Where  men  die  with  heart  unopened,  and  the  word  of 

Fate  unsaid, 
They  who  mete  and  they  who  gather,  counting  out  the 

shining  spoil, 
Bade  me   stand  and  tarry  reck'ning,  show  my  wages 

and  my  toil. 

Comes  a  beggar  to  the  banquet  where  the  full  in  heart 

rehearse, 
He  shall  take  his  place  in  silence,  he  shall  neither  bless 

nor  curse  ; 
We  must  cover   his  short-comings  with  a  treasure  of 

our  own — 
Meet  it  is,  in  spirit-council,  men's  possessions  should  be 

shown. 


84  WHAT    I   HAVE. 

Let  me  pass  then,  as  a  spendthrift,  with  a  single  golden 

coin 
I   shall   never    risk   or  barter,   for   a   kingdom   or   a 

mine ; 
Not  for  bread  would  I  exchange  it,  tho'  the  wolf  should 

gnaw  my  bones, 
Not   for   pearls   of  purest   water,   not   for   wealth   of 

priceless  stones. 

Nor  the  child  I  dearest  cherish,  shall  inherit  with  my 

land 
This,   my   chiefest  of  resources,   shut  within  a  dying 

hand  ; 
Not  too  costly  for  the  passage  of  the  dark  and  silent 

sea, 
If  but  Love,  star-crowned,  immortal,  shall  afford  me 

company. 


WHAT  I  BEAR. 

On  the  dark  and  troubled  billows,  lo !  thou  gleamest, 

as  a  star, 
And   we  catch  a  pallid  lustre  ere  we  lose  thy  trace 

afar. 
What  the  burthen  on  thy  bosom  ?  is  it  treasure,  is  it 

weed  ? 
Glows  that  whiteness   with  thy  rapture,   is  it  deathly 

with  thy  need  ? 

'Tis  a  boon  beyond  all  asking  that  I  bear  upon  my 

breast, 
As  beyond  Hope's  trembling  urgings,  direst  Certainty 

is  best. 
Show  your   garlands,   wave   your   banners,  call   your 

joyaunce  half  divine  ; 
Yours  are  warm  and   living  pleasures,  but  the  dead, 

cold  gem  is  mine. 


86  WHAT    I    BEAR. 

He  is  mine,  but  not  to  crown  me,  not  to  take  my  passive 

hand, 
Not  to  lead  me  forth,  the  proudest,  chosen  from  a  chosen 

band ; 
Could  a  ring  unite  our  fortunes,  it  should  wed  the  sky 

and  sea, — 
Draw  me  up  from  storm  and  battle,  draw  my  lov'd  one 

down  to  me. 

He  is  mine  by  lips  that  speak  not,  by  the  calm,  impas- 
sive brow, 

By  the  eyes  whose  lids  are  marble,  fix'd  on  other 
visions  now, 

By  the  deathless  bond  of  sorrow,  by  the  length  of  joy 
deferred, 

By  the  sign  of  lofty  meaning,  and  the  deep  remembered 
word. 

As  yon  ocean-island  woman  many  a  league  her  husband 

bore, 
Swimming  painfully  and  breathless,  that  the  dead  might 

reach  the  shore  ; 
Without  brighter  hope  or  promise  to  uphold  her  weary 

way. 
Than   to   lay   him  where    the  steadfast  Earth   should 

shelter  his  decay ; 


WHAT    I    BEAR.  Si 

So,  thro'  seas  that  swell  to  madness  with  the  buffet  of 

the  storm, 
In    the    arms    that    struggle    onward,  still  I  bear  his 

lifeless  form, 
Till  some  wave,  with  swift  uplifting,  on  the  sands  shall 

lay  us  both, 
On  the  bosom  of  God's  mercy,  in  the  wholeness  of  our 

troth. 


SUE. 

She  was  a  freak  of  Nature's  joy, 

A  flow'ret  wonder-pied, — 
As  startling  as  a  pansy  found 

Black-leaved,  and  golden  eyed. 

Her  voice  was  borrowed  from  the  choir 
That  rings  the  vernal  years  ; 

Her  temper  was  ethereal  fire 
That  calmed  itself  in  tears. 

Some  nameless  touch  of  God's  delight 

Fell  on  her,  as  she  lay 
An  infant,  dreaming  heavenly  dreams, 

And  never  passed  away. 

Her  laughter,  many-voiced  and  full, 
Had  not  one  scornful  strain  ; 

Her  eyes,  that  flashed  defiant  mirth, 
Were  tender  and  humane. 


sue.  89 

She  wore  the  radiance  of  her  youth 

As  though  she  felt  it  not ; 
And  while  she  held  you  with  her  speech, 

Her  beauty  was  forgot. 

For  Soul  to  outward  Beauty  is 

As  Sun  to  dawning  Day, 
The  rosy  drapery  vanishes 

Before  the  conquering  ray. 

Twas  hers  to  move  in  fearlessness, 

And  throne  herself  at  ease ; 
Too  royal  were  her  gifts,  that  she 

Should  condescend  to  please. 

Oh  !  dread  and  discontent  of  life  ! 

Do  angels  reason  why 
The  small  of  soul  grow  smaller  still, 

While  great  hearts  break  and  die  ? 

******* 
She  left  us  in  the  sweet,  calm  June, 

When  all  things  tend  to  rest ; 
And  her  own  bud  of  summer  lay 

Half-ripened  in  her  breast. 


90  sue. 

It  needs  no  name  to  make  her  known- 
Her  form  of  love  and  grace 

Endures  to  marble  in  true  hearts, 
Her  deathless  resting-place. 

Yet  could  I  an  immortal  paint 

In  high,  heroic  glee, 
Outvying  summer  winds  and  waves 

In  leaping  ecstasy ; 

But  sorrow -touched,  as  having  borne 

A  woman's  destiny, 
Quick  tears,  in  loving  eyes  surprised 

Would  answer  :  This  is  She. 


S.  P. 

Unclose,  sad  shrine,  thy  shrouded  breast, 

Expectant  to  receive  him  ; 
Give,  ere  the  dust  to  dust  return, 

All  that  thou  hast  to  give  him — 

One  hallowing  rite,  one  parting  prayer, 
Deep  as  the  heart's  pulsation ; 

One  word  that  points  to  whence  shall  come 
If  ever,  consolation. 

One  hour  that  holds  the  cherished  dead 

For  us,  the  ever  dying  ; 
We,  wrung  by  Nature's  agony, 

And  he,  serenely  lying. 

Sound,  wailing  Anthem — lend  thy  voice 

To  thoughts  we  cannot  utter, 
Till,  in  the  dim,  mysterious  void, 

The  wings  of  angels  flutter. 


92  s.  p. 

We've  laid  a  garland  on  his  bier 
Of  fresh  and  fragrant  blossom, 

Of  flowers,  like  him,  untimely  plucked 
From  Nature's  wintry  bosom. 

Gather  around  him,  faithful  hearts, 
So  fain  from  ill  to  shield  him, 

Before  yon  reddening  Sun  departs, 
To  Darkness  ye  must  yield  him. 

And  thou,  for  whose  ecstatic  grief 
No  thought  fit  word  can  borrow ; 

Rise  up,  beneath  thy  widowed  garb, 
The  royal  robe  of  sorrow  ; 

Move,  followed  close  by  tearful  eyes, 

And  sobbing  benediction, 
To  where  th'  inexorable  gate 

Shuts  him  from  our  affliction. 

Bear  bravely,  to  the  last  farewell — 
This  anguish  too,  is  fleeting  ; 

The  path,  slow  winding  from  his  grave, 
Leads  on,  to  happier  meeting. 


s.  p.  93 

Life  must  resume  its  wonted  task, 

Its  care,  unblest  without  him, — 
Thou  wouldst  not  wake  him  ?    Let  him  lie 

"With  his  stately  youth  about  him. 

He  lies,  enshrined  in  holy  hope, 

Embalsamed  in  affection, 
In  hope,  in  love,  whose  deathless  pledge 

Is  Nature's  resurrection. 


WIDOW'S  WORDS. 

How  easy  was't  to  gather  and  to  work 
With  this  right  hand,  intent  to  feel  its  way, 
When  the  weak  left  a  loving  grasp  upheld, 
And  tender  eyes  to  mine  were  sun  and  stay. 

The  deep,  enamoured  heart,  that  ever  drew 
The  inspiration  of  its  life  from  mine ; 
Oh  sure !  the  votary  completes  the  God, 
And  worship  concentrates  the  vague  Divine. 

I  grew  heroic  from  his  faith  in  me, — 
As  a  fair  landscape  in  a  mirror  black, 
My  soul,  whose  lustre  has  no  hue  of  light, 
Was  fain  to  give  his  cloudless  beauty  back. 

Struck  by  an  icebolt  fell  the  palsied  hand, 
The  mirror  sickened  with  a  ghastly  breath, 
And  in  its  depth  and  darkness  now  was  seen 
Slow  vanishing,  the  pallid  spoil  of  death. 


widow's  words.  95 

The  fight  is  at  its  hottest,  only  now 
Th'  unflinching  escort  from  my  side  is  flown  ; 
The  web  is  on  my  fingers,  but  the  ray 
That  made  its  fineness  beautiful,  dies  down. 

And  thus  I  sit,  bewildered  in  my  grief, 
Or  walk  beneath  the  burthen  of  my  doubt, 
Striving,  with  little  heart,  to  do  and  bear, 
Since  Time  is  left,  with  daylight  blotted  out. 


THE  NURSERY. 

"  Come,  sing  for  us,  dear  Mother, 
A  song  of  the  olden  times  ; 
Of  the  merry  Christmas  carol, 
Of  the  happy  New  Year  chimes ; 
Nor  sit  here,  idle-handed, 
To  hang  your  head  and  grieve, 
Beside  the  blazing  hearthstone 
This  pleasant  Winter's  eve." 

Then  she  sang,  to  please  the  children, 
With  half-forgetful  tongue, 
Some  merry-measured  roundel 
Of  the  happy  days  and  young  ; 
But,  pierced  with  sudden  sorrow, 
The  words  came  faint  and  slow, 
Till  one,  in  childish  panic, 
Cried  :  "  Mother,  sing  not  so  !  " 

Then  all  the  little  creatures 
Looked  wondering  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  the  Baby  nestled  nearer, 
Startled  at  their  surprise  ; 


THE    NURSERY.  97 

The  voice  grew  thin  and  quavered, 
Low  drooped  the  weary  head, 
Till  the  breath  of  song  was  stifled, 
And  tears  burst  forth  instead. 

For  misty  memories  covered 
The  children  from  her  ken, 
And  down  the  bitter  river 
She  dropped — no  mother  then  ; 
No  sister,  helpmeet,  daughter, 
Linked  to  historic  years ; 
An  agonizing  creature 
That  looked  to  God  in  tears. 

But  when  some  sudden  turning 
Had  checked  her  hopeless  way, 
She  saw  the  little  faces 
No  longer  glad  or  gay ; 
And  as  they  gazed,  bewildered 
By  grief  they  could  not  guess, 
Their  sympathetic  silence 
Was  worse  than  her  distress. 

Then  she  tore  the  fatal  vesture 

Of  agony  aside  ; 

And  showed,  with  mimic  gesture, 

7 


98  THE    NURSERY. 

How  naughty  children  cried. — 
And  told  of  hoary  castles 
By  giant  warders  kept, 
Of  deep  and  breathless  forests 
Where  tranced  beauties  slept ; 
Weaving  in  rainbow  madness 
The  cloud  upon  her  brain, 
Till  they  forgot  her  weeping, 
And  she  forgot  her  pain. 

Twere  well  to  pour  the  soul  out 
In  one  convulsive  fit, 
And  rend  the  heart  with  weeping, 
If  Love  were  loosed  from  it. 
But  all  the  secret  sorrow 
That  underlies  our  lives, 
Must  wait  the  true  solution 
The  great  progression  gives. 

Those  griefs  so  widely  gathered, 
Those  deep,  abyssmal  chords, 
Broken  by  wailing  music 
Too  passionate  for  words, 
Find  gentle  reconcilement 
In  some  serener  breast. 
And  touch  with  deeper  pathos 
Its  symphonies  of  rest. 


A  LETTER. 

As  notes  that  seek  a  far  response, 
Or  moonlight,  falling  on  the  sea, 
Flit  past  the  sullen,  dark  profound, 
Your  genial  greetings  touch  not  me. 

We  are  too  far  apart,  and  you 
Too  closely  wrapt  in  blessedness, 
Pressing  a  cup  whose  brim  allows 
No  rose-leaf,  in  its  sweet  excess. 

The  misty  realm  of  dreams  to-night 
Shall  hold  us,  in  its  halls  of  rest — 
The  mighty  God-soul  of  the  world 
Includes  us,  vaguely,  in  his  breast ; 

But  we  can  meet  not,  destined  thou 
On  Joy's  wild  impetus  to  soar, 
I,  to  rest  prostrate,  like  the  dead, 
Who  know  nor  Love,  nor  longing,  more. 


100  A    LETTER. 

Yet  wander,  woodnote.  for  thy  mate, 
Or.  moonbeam,  wed  th'  inconstant  sea — 
The  sorrow  of  my  heart  is  deep, 
And  therefore  it  sufficeth  me. 


THE   POET'S   WISH. 

It  was  a  sad,  mysterious  joy, 

The  poet  gave  his  buried  friend, 

That  to  his  country's  native  flower 

His  mouldering  corse  should  beauty  lend. 

Grief,  to  sublime  of  passion  wrought, 
A  Guardian  at  thy  tomb  shall  stand, 
"  And,  from  thine  ashes  may  be  made 
The  violet  of  thy  native  land." 

It  were  a  thought  of  bitterness, 
In  height  and  flush  of  life,  to  know 
That,  from  our  forms  exanimate 
Some  baneful  poison  plant  should  grow. 

Thus,  happier  he  to  whose  lone  grave 
Nor  Love,  nor  Fame,  its  tribute  gives, 
Than  who,  illustrious,  leaves  a  seed 
To  harm  the  simplest  soul  that  lives. 


ENTSAGEN. 

As  One  that  gazes,  starbound,  on  the  sky, 
Heeds  not  a  pageant  passing  in  the  street ; 
As  one  swept  onward  with  a  favoring  wind 
Recks  not  of  wild  sea-treasures  at  his  feet ; 

As  one  that  walks  in  high,  prophetic  dreams, 
Forgets  the  throb  of  earth,  and  sense  of  pain  ; 
As  conquerors  tarry  not  to  count  their  dead, 
Nor  lovers  weigh  their  losing  in  their  gain : 

So,  teachest  thou,  the  soul  by  God  endowed 
With  lofty  impulse,  and  poetic  sweep, 
Bereft  of  all  its  earthly  heritage, 
Should  still  disdain  to  struggle,  or  to  weep ; 

Should  not  defend  the  prizes  of  the  heart 
With  straining  grasp,  with  agonizing  tears, 
Nor,  bruised  and  martyr'd,  ask  aloud  of  God 
Its  ravished  beauty,  for  the  scar  it  wears. 


ENTSAGEN.  103 

Life  hunts  us  blindfold,  plucking  at  our  hands, 
Mocking  us  on,  eluding  us  with  jeers  ; 
Breathless,  we  roll  our  darkened  eyes  for  help, 
With  heathen  laughter  ringing  in  our  ears. 

Thus  we  relinquish  treasures  of  high  trust, 
Thus,  weakly  cling  where  we  should  render  up, 
"When,  with  free  sight  and  arm,  'twere  scarcely  hard 
To  seize  and  dash  down  the  disputed  cup. 

But,  friend,  for  such  proud  gesture  one  should  wear 
A  haughty  forehead,  kept  by  beetling  brows, 
An  eye  that  melts  and  quivers  not,  a  lip 
That  hardens  to  the  enmity  it  vows. 

Oh  !  stood  I  thus  enfranchised,  long  enough 
To  gather  up  each  wrecked  and  wronged  delight, 
Commit  them  to  th'  abyss  with  holy  words, 
Then,  tearless,  front  the  calm,  eternal  night ! 

And  oh!  my  womanish  heart — if  this  were  done, 
I  should  but  bend,  with  fixed  and  shaded  eye, 
Follow  the  ghosts  of  parted  happiness, 
Then,  w7ith  wild  tossing  arms,  plunge  down  and  die. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL. 

Thou  warn'st  me,  I  should  heed  the  Beautiful? 
Stay  then — reveal  it  to  the  spell-bound  sense. 
Not  with  the  eye,  the  ear,  or  heart,  I  feel 
Man's  dignity,  and  Nature's  excellence. 

I  know  them,  as  we  know  a  word  of  God 
Told  in  mysterious  whispers  of  the  night, 
Which,  waking,  is  not  found,  but  kept  in  heart, 
Till  struggling  Faith  is  ravished  of  its  right. 

Thus,  rising  from  a  dream,  but  dreaming  still, 
I  walked,  in  vision-haunted  maidenhood, 
Fed  with  high  fancies,  all  unlearn'd  of  life, 
Save  its  young  promise  of  ideal  good. 

I  found  the  temple,  but  the  shrine  was  bare, 
The  God  invisible,  and  rapt  from  sense  ; 
I  wove  my  chaplet,  waiting  for  the  priest 
Whose  holy  lesson  should  dismiss  me  thence. 


THE    BEAUTIFUL.  105 

I  sat  and  wrought  upon  the  marble  steps, 

Secure  in  faith  and  young  humility, 

While  men  passed  by — sometimes  a  gracious  one 

To  whom  my  heart  said,  throbbing,  "  Thou  art  he  !  " 

But  these  went  on,  unheeding  of  their  power — 
Theirs  was  another  rite,  another  feast ; 
Nor  did  my  love  wait  on  them — it  abode, 
Steadfast  and  strong,  the  coming  of  the  priest. 

So  was  my  garland  wreathed  with  little  aid, 
So  were  its  petals  blent  too  waywardly, 
Wild  growths  put  gentle  garden-flowers  to  shame. 
And  poison-vines  hung,  trailing,  from  my  knee. 

I  chose  the  best  my  scanty  learning  showed, 
Nor  ever  left  the  consecrated  spot, 
But  to  return,  with  new-discovered  spoils, 
From  hill-side  villa,  wood,  or  garden-plot. 

Soon,  little  feet  essayed  to  follow  mine, 
Sharing  at  will  my  wanderings,  and  my  hap ; 
Fingers,  whose  sense  was  nicer  than  my  sight, 
Laid  tiny  offerings  on  the  mother's  lap. 


106  THE    BEAUTIFUL. 

But  here  she  sits,  still  waiting,  dreaming  on 
Of  some  contentment,  scarce  to  be  conceived, 
Some  soul  of  blessedness,  some  smile  of  peace, 
Some  utterance,  heard  but  once  to  be  believed. 

Oh  !  not  the  features  of  a  Grecian  god, 
The  holiness  of  manhood's  noblest  saint, 
The  wisdom  whose  wan  halo  wastes  the  brow, 
The  heart  full-passionate,  and  free  from  taint ; 

Not  all  this  high  conception,  which  enshrines 
Divine  delight  in  manly  majesty, 
Can  more  than  shadow  what  that  unknown  Priest, 
That  unseen  Beautiful,  remain  to  me. 

Is  it  a  dream  that  he  shall  surely  come, 
And  lay  his  hand  upon  these  weary  eyes  ? 
At  the  transcendent  virtue  of  his  touch 
Shall  not  the  soul  from  wreck  and  ruin  rise  ? 

Shall  I  not  drop  my  trivial  task,  and  stretch 
My  hands  for  garlands  in  his  bosom  borne? 
Shall  not  fresh  greenness  glorify  the  spot 
Where  I  have  dwelt,  uncomforted,  forlorn? 


THE    BEAUTIFUL.  107 

Shall  I  break  out  in  weeping,  or  in  song, 
Or  glow  with  shame,  to  own  myself  so  dull, 
When,  as  he  smiles  the  death-film  from  my  sight, 
My  heart  shall  say,  "  This  was  the  Beautiful "  ? 


WHERE    IS    THE    BEAUTIFUL? 

Where  is  the  Beautiful  ?  in  these  sharp  airs  ? 
These  skies  from  which  God  sends  no  pleasure  down, 
These  hills  with  sad  monotony  of  curve, 
Fixed  by  long  Winter  in  perpetual  frown  ? 

Or  in  these  men  and  women,  fashioned  most 
In  features  of  an  undelightful  mould, 
Ardent  in  all  that  shows  self  paramount, 
Where  self  should  melt  and  mingle,  hard  and  cold. 

Writh  pitiless  remembrance  of  the  faults 
That  God  and  Time  pass  over  leniently, 
These  on  a  brother's  blemishes  confer 
The  demon's  gift  of  immortality. 

I  have  seen  saintly  blood  that,  long  congealed, 
At  some  prayer-hallowed  festival  would  melt 
From  deathless  virtue  in  the  heart  it  fed, 
And  latent  love,  forgotten  ne'er,  once  felt. 


WHERE    IS    THE    BEAUTIFUL  ?  109 

Me  thought  that  in  those  drops,  by  fervent  heat 
To  life  and  ancient  charity  renewed, 
Were  pulses,  human  holier  than  could  thrill 
Through  the  whole  current  of  your  watery  blood. 

Oh  !  sordid  life — oh  !  conflict  desperate, 
Oh  !  comfort  shredded  from  a  scanty  hand  ; 
Oh  !  fainting  feeble  ones,  who  drop  beside 
The  thorny  way,  and  wail  throughout  the  land. 

Though  I  am  one  whom  men  care  not  to  praise, 
And  in  the  ages'  service  make  small  show, 
I  could  for  you  a  thankless  task  assay, 
In  your  defence  strike  many  a  valorous  blow. 

Ye  asked  for  love — these  gave  you  fiery  zeal, 
They  locked  your  gentle  souls  in  iron  fate ; 
And  when  the  breast  was  bared  for  nearer  help, 
They  smote  you  with  a  heart  impenetrate. 

Come,  share  the  freer  gifts  of  poverty, — 
Of  those  I  have,  I  will  refuse  you  none, 
Upbraid  you  from  no  Stoical  retreat 
Of  Virtue  more  ambitious  than  your  own. 


110  WHERE    IS    THE    BEAUTIFUL  ? 

Take  my  poor  treasures — they  are  quickly  told — 
A  soul  whose  tears  and  laughter  breathe  of  song  ; 
A  mournful  humour,  and  a  merry  wit, 
A  heart  that  harbours  no  distemper  long ; 

And  higher  helps,  as  beacons  set,  to  guide 

In  this  night-world,  where  ev'n  the  wisest  grope, 

Sisters  twin-hearted,  dear  maternal  joys, 

The  dead,  the  distant — nearer,  Home  and  Hope. 


POST  SCRIPTUM. 

When  thus  I  reasoned  of  the  Beautiful 
My  vexed  and  querulous  thought  had  not  outgone 
The  comfort  of  the  since  instructing  years, 
Nor  thy  fair  face,  my  last  and  gentlest-born. 

Thou  dost  the  Eastern  paradox  reverse. 
Towards  the  far  mountain-tops  I  could  not  flee, 
Whereon  the  heavenly  vision  seemed  to  rest — 
And  waiting,  Beauty  was  at  home  with  me. 


AS  IT  SEEMS. 

Two  faces,  once  familiar,  that  again 
Snatch  silent  greeting,  with  a  crowd  between  ; 
But  they  long  parted — set  on  heights  of  Time 
That  gulfs  divide,  and  constant  shadows  screen. 

The  veil  of  separation  rent  in  twain, 
Their  eyes  as  in  a  dim  cathedral  met, 
Whose  arches  from  the  swiftly  pairing  years 
Its  crystals  from  the  glow  of  Hope,  were  set. 

Its  Saints,  the  holy  figures  of  the  Dead, 
Fleeting,  yet  fixed  as  Love,  the  ever-true ; 
While,  glimmering,  thro'  the  ruined  portal  shows 
Like  a  far  dream,  Youth's  sunny  sky  of  blue. 

Iconoclastic  Fortune  spares  the  hut — 

The  toil-browned  peasant,  and  his  patient  wife, 

With  little  scope  of  sorrow  or  desire, 

Live  out  their  harmless,  vegetative  life. 


1  L2  AS    IT    SEEMS. 

But  we,  who  strove  to  raise  a  pile  on  high 
Fit  to  embrace  the  organ-tone  of  Time, 
Who  gave  to  weightiest  thoughts  an  upward  lift, 
Laying  broad  reasons,  rounding  rhyme  to  rhyme, 

Stand  thunder-smitten,  yet  with  stern  command 
To  bear  Life's  devastations,  since  our  fall 
That  else  were  solemnly  desired,  should  bring 
Our  gentle  Parasites  to  ruin,  all. 

For  theirs  is  Beauty's  office — she  must  fling 
Her  glowing  mantle  o'er  all  havoc  made  ; 
Soothing  Decay  with  tireless  services 
That  cannot  be  commanded,  nor  repaid. 


AS  IT  IS. 

My  soul  is  weary  of  this  chant  of  woe 

Where  rhyme  attends  on  rhyme,  as  tear  on  tear  ; 

I  sit  beside  the  waning  lamp,  and  wait 

Some  vigorous  voice  to  break  the  spell  of  fear. 

Slow  lustres  lead  us  from  the  wild  surprise 
Of  early  sorrows — stranger  following  strange, 
Till  in  th'  uncertain,  billowy  waste  we  see 
No  law  save  this,  of  unsubstantial  change. 

In  Childhood's  Eden,  111  was  ill  at  ease, 
The  swift  irruption  of  some  demon  foe, 
But  the  Grief-serpent  fastens  on  the  soul — 
Thenceforth  the  struggle  to  our  life  we  owe. 

Fate,  that  can  raise  a  beggar  to  a  throne, 
Mocks  him  and  thee,  can  rob  as  well  as  give ; 
From  every  lov'd  possession  thou  mayst  learn 
That  thou  canst  be  bereft  of  it,  and  live. 
8 


114  AS    IT    IS. 

A  Queen,  whose  airy  footsteps  spurned  the  ground, 
Whose  fingers  were  too  fair  for  daintiest  lips, 
Mends  her  worn  kerchief  for  a  felon's  end, 
Scarce  wondering  at  the  desolate  eclipse. 

Or  men  to  life  by  keen  enjoyment  wed, 
On  th'  unpitying  wheel  stretched  suddenly, 
Tease  the  pale  headsman  for  the  boon  withheld 
Of  Death,  their  torture  hunger's  luxury. 

We  who  aspire  to  harmonies  divine, 
Taxing  Creation  for  its  master-tone, 
Soaring  to  heights  untenable  and  crazed 
Were  once  the  daring  inspiration  gone  ; 

Let  us  be  modest — we  are  rich  to  win 
One  jewel  from  the  treasure-laden  deep, 
Or,  from  the  wreck  of  affluent  loves,  to  hold 
A  single  faithful  breast  whereon  to  weep. 

A  breast  to  weep  upon  ?  oh  !  this  at  least, 
I  cried,  with  outstretched  arm,  and  sudden  wail ; 
Experience  shuts  our  asking  with  one  hope, 
Trust  in  thyself,  and  God,  who  cannot  fail. 


A  VISION  OF  MONTGOMERY  PLACE. 

Who  knocks  at  Dr.  Wendell's  door  ? 

"Who  waits  with  patient  feet 
For  "  aloes,  pil  et  colocynth," 

Or  "  Rhubarb,  tincture  sweet  ?  " 

Who  knocks  ?  the  many  little  ones 

In  whom  his  home  rejoices, 
Desert  their  play,  and  crowd  to  peep 

With  eager  eyes  and  voices. 

"  What  if  'twere  Santa  Claus,  arrived 

With  weighty  load  of  toys, 
With  dolls  for  little  maids'  delight, 

And  rods  for  rampant  boys  ?  " 

Then,  peering  thro'  the  glass,  they  see 

By  the  uncertain  light, 
What  seems  the  very  soul  of  frost 

Set  in  the  silent  nio-ht. 


116  A    VISION    OF    MONTGOMERY    PLACE. 

"  Nay,  do  not  fear  me,  little  ones, 

I  have  no  ill-intent ; 
But  tell  Papa  an  Author  waits 

And  eke,  a  penitent." 

The  children  to  the  study  run, 
The  father  conies  straightway  ; 

But  argues,  ere  he  draws  the  bolt : 
"  Give  me  your  name,  I  pray. 

i 
"  You  Authors  are  so  hot  of  blood, 

So  sensitive  of  skin, 
One  wants  one's  surgeon's  mittens  on 

Before  one  lets  you  in. 

"  The  Swan  of  Cambridge  might  you  be  ? 

Or  Lowell,  fresh  of  face, 
Or  Hillard,  bringing  palm-leaves  from 

His  swift  Italian  race  ? 

"  Or  Emerson,  whose  teeming  Muse 
Craved  '  cantharids  to  eat '  ?  " 

"  Nay,  nay,  undo  the  door,  and  see 
A  woman  in  a  sheet. 


A    VISION    OF    MONTGOMERY    PLACE.  117 

"  A  woman  in  a  sheet,  that  looks 

A  statue,  as  she  stands, 
And  proffers  you  a  knotted  scourge 

From  softly  folded  hands." 

"  Pass  hence,  pale  shade  !  dost  take  me  for 

A  Haynau  ?  By  the  Rood 
I  never  flogged  a  woman  yet, 

And  know  not  if  I  could." 

With  fixed  regard,  with  rigid  lip, 

Replies  the  penitent : 
"  I  was  the  saucy  '  Commonwealth ' — 

Oh  !  help  me  to  repent. 

"  Behind  my  embrasure  well-braced, 

With  every  chance  to  hit, 
I  made  your  banner,  waving  wide, 

A  mark  for  wayward  wit. 

"  'Twas  now  my  turn  to  walk  the  street, 

In  dangerous  singleness, 
And  run,  as  bravely  as  I  might, 

The  gauntlet  of  the  press. 


118  A    VISION    OF   MONTGOMERY   PLACE. 

■ 

u  And  when  I  passed  your  balcony 

Expecting  only  blows, 
From  height  of  vantage-ground,  you  stooped 

To  whelm  me  with  a  rose. 

"  A  rose,  intense  with  crimson  life 
And  hidden  perfume  sweet — 

Call  out  your  friends,  and  see  me  do 
My  penance,  in  the  street." 

"  Oh  no  !  "  the  Doctor  shivering  cried : 

"  The  night  is  very  cold ; 
Step  in,  or  on  the  threshold  here 

My  lesson  shall  be  told. 

"  We  sat  as  critics,  in  those  days, 
High-talking,  wondrous  wise, — 

We  meet  as  poets  now,  and  look 
With  more  synthetic  eyes. 

"  The  critic  is  allowed  to  rule 

The  common  law  of  art — 
The  poet  takes  his  judgment  from 

The  pleading  of  the  heart." 


FROM   THE    LATTICE. 

Let  it  content  thee  that  I  call  thee  dear — 
Thou'rt  wise  and  great,  and  others  name  thee  so. 
From  me,  what  gentler  tribute  wouldst  thou  know 
Than  the  slight  hand,  upon  thy  shoulder  laid, 
And  the  full  heart,  high  throbbing,  not  afraid. 

No,  not  afraid — of  manly  stature  thou, 
Of  power  compact,  and  temper  fervor-tried,— 
Yet  I,  a  weakling,  in  thine  armour  hide, 
Or,  sick  beyond  the  medicine  of  Art, 
Hang  on  the  healthful  pulses  of  thine  heart. 

In  waking  dreams  I  see  thine  outstretched  arms 
That  conquer  night  and  distance  for  my  sake, 
Like  the  brave  swimmer  who  was  wont  to  break 
The  crystals  of  the  deep  in  shivering  light, 
To  bless  his  Ladye  with  his  radiant  sight. 


120  FROM   THE    LATTICE. 

There  is  a  sense  in  which  I  call  thee  mine — 
Not  as  possession  runs  in  Youth's  hot  blood  ; 
But  in  the  helpful,  self-renunciant  mood 
Of  Aspiration,  daring,  hand  in  hand, 
Tasks  that  in  mystical  conjunction  stand. 

Have  I  not  been  too  thoughtlessly  surprised 
Into  this  mood,  so  near  akin  to  loving  ? 
I  hold  myself  to  vexed  and  fond  reproving ; 
Saying,  wert  thou  then  so  eager  to  impart, 
Thou  couldst  not  hide  one  secret  in  thy  heart  ? 

There  is  a  dead,  immortal  maiden  speaks 
Responsive,  from  the  legendary  tomb 
That  treasures,  incorrupt,  her  bridal  bloom  : 
"  If  I  could  wish  back  the  advantage  ta'en, 
'Twere  to  be  kind,  and  give  it  him  again." 


A    MAID'S    REQUISITION. 

Dare  not  tell  me  coldly  that  you  love  me, 
Smiling  calm,  with  glittering  eyes  and  teeth  ; 
You  might  speak  it,  bending  close  above  me, 
With  a  brow  suffused,  and  failing  breath. 

Is  there  nought  of  trouble  and  commotion 
In  these  words,  where  hope  and  madness  meet  ? 
Deep  convulsions  shake  the  heart  of  ocean 
When  his  wavelets  kiss  beloved  feet. 

Stars  that  shed  their  messages  of  beauty 
Prisoned  in  the  deep,  impassive  night  ? 
Speak  they  cold  and  calm  as  Fate  and  Duty  ? 
Nay — they  throb  out  sentences  of  light. 

But  is't  true,  and  am  I  better,  dearer 
Than  Life's  blossoms  that  around  thee  fall  ? 
Never  deem  that  words  can  make  it  clearer — 
Let  me  feel  it — tell  it  not  at  all. 


IN    THE    VINEYARD. 

I  am  God's  hireling,  not  his  child  beloved ; 
In  the  wide  market-place  I  stand  and  wait 
For  the  brief  nod  and  gesture  of  the  Fate 
That  motions  me  to  weal  or  woe,  unmoved. 

Nor  lives  this  daring  in  my  vexed  mind, 
To  struggle  towards  him  for  a  moment's  ease, 
As  a  babe,  striving  towards  his  father's  knees, 
Looks  up  for  love  in  eyes  unchanging  kind. 

"  Where  is  thy  treasure,"  those  stern  eyes  should  say, 
"  Flung  to  the  winds  with  wild  and  haughty  thrift  ? 
What  was  the  traffic  of  thy  holy  gift  ?  " 
And  I  should  smother  sobs,  and  turn  away. 

Yet  dwells  remembrance  in  my  inmost  soul, 
Of  happy  tasks,  and  toil  divinely  glad, 
When  I  stood  armed  for  action  ere  he  bade, 
And,  bounding  at  his  voice,  o'erstripped  the  goal. 


IN    THE    VINEYARD.  123 

Oh  !  could  I  find  him,  as  a  child  surprised, 
Led  by  a  menial  thro'  unwonted  streets, 
Makes  wistful  search  in  every  face  he  meets, 
And  leaps  up  toward  the  dear  one  recognized. 

Or,  held  and  hastened  by  the  Unseen  hand, 
Now  pressing  back,  now  swift  and  rude  in  wrath, 
Look  up,  where  Glory  shoots  across  my  path 
And  see  the  Father  for  the  Master  stand  ! 

Give  me  this  vision  where  my  feet  shall  stop, 
Spurning  no  more  the  earth's  resistless  round  ; 
Where  Will  and  Courage  reach  their  viewless  bound, 
And  pausing,  let  the  passive  body  drop. 

Grant  me,  that  moment,  the  great  thought  of  thee, 
Then,  leave  me  life,  or  nothingness  at  will, 
Beyond  this  prayer,  are  Faith  and  Reason  still, 
For  that  one  moment  is  Eternity. 


THE    WOLF   WITHIN    THE    MOTHER'S    SHEEP- 
FOLD. 

The  black  wolf  waited  for  my  pretty  Lamb, 
Watching  some  careless  hour  to  seize  his  prey, 
I  traced  his  lurking  footsteps  every  where, 
Nor  dared  to  gather  hope  from  his  delay. 

The  little  one  was  loath  to  leave  her  play, 

And  mocked  with  smiles  the  mournful  looks  of  each ; 

Wildly  she  thrust  the  arm  of  help  away, 

And,  faint  in  breath,  grew  wayward  in  her  speech. 

The  mother  could  not  weep  and  durst  not  pray, 
Knowing  what  grief  can  happen  here  below  ; 
She  calmed  herself  in  spasms,  envying  most 
The  dead,  the  childless,  all  who  shun  such  woe. 

And,  circling  still,  the  Terrible  drew  near, 

In  swift  approaches,  certain  of  his  aim, 

While  we,  who  would  have  died  to  come  between, 

Could  only  look,  as  on  a  desperate  game. 


THE    WOLF,    ETC.  125 

And  narrower  grew  the  margin  of  our  hope, 
The  victim  struggling  in  half-conscious  pangs ; 
Till,  when  the  wild  wolf's  midnight  hour  had  come, 
At  the  fair  throat  he  struck,  with  deadly  fangs. 

But  then,  the  radiant  shepherd  intervened, 
With  arms  divine,  to  ward  the  savage  blow ; 
He  raised  our  darling  from  her  death-like  swound, 
And,  with  one  gesture,  sped  th'  insatiate  foe. 

Thus,  the  dark  terror  passed  at  break  of  day, 
And  on  the  mother's  heart  came  sudden  change ; 
She  had  been  fain  to  measure  with  a  look 
That  gulf  of  anguish — now,  delight  seemed  strange. 

But  since  that  blest  deliverance,  in  her  child, 
Another's  treasure  lent,  she  seems  to  hold ; 
The  shepherd's  touch  has  left  the  shining  sign 
That  marks  the  sinless,  numbered  in  his  fold. 

Anon  with  trembling  joy  the  mother  pleads 
For  her  sweet  idol  'gainst  the  claim  divine ; 
Then,  vanquished,  lays  her  anxious  weapon  down, 
Saying  only,  "  Take  me  too,  if  she  be  thine." 


THE    LAMB   WITHOUT. 

Whene'er  I  close  the  door  at  night, 
And  turn  the  creaking  key  about, 
A  pang  renewed  assails  my  heart — 
I  think,  my  darling  is  shut  out. 

Think  that,  beneath  these  starry  skies, 
He  wanders,  with  his  little  feet ; 
The  pines  stand,  hushed  in  glad  surprise, 
The  garden  yields  its  tribute  sweet. 

Thro'  every  well-known  path  and  nook 
I  see  his  angel  footsteps  glide, 
As  guileless  as  the  Pascal  Lamb 
That  kept  the  Infant  Saviour's  side. 

His  earnest  eye,  perhaps,  can  pierce 
The  gloom  in  which  his  parents  sit ; 
He  wonders  what  has  changed  the  house 
And  why  the  cloud  hangs  over  it. 


THE    LAMB    WITHOUT.  127 

He  passes  with  a  pensive  smile — 
Why  do  they  linger  to  grow  old, 
And  what  the  burthen  on  their  hearts  ? 
On  him  shall  sorrow  have  no  hold. 

Within  the  darkened  porch  I  stand — 
Scarce  knowing  why,  I  linger  long ; 
Oh  !  could  I  call  thee  back  to  me 
Bright  bird  of  heaven,  with  sooth  or  song  ! 

But  no— the  wayworn  wretch  shall  pause 
To  bless  the  shelter  of  this  door  ; 
Kinsman  and  guest  shall  enter  in, 
But  my  lost  darling  never  more. 

Yet,  waiting  on  his  gentle  ghost, 
From  sorrow's  void,  so  deep  and  dull, 
Comes  a  faint  breathing  of  delight, 
A  presence  calm  and  beautiful. 

I  have  him,  not  in  outstretched  arms, 
I  hold  him,  not  with  straining  sight, 
While  in  blue  depths  of  quietude 
Drops,  like  a  star,  my  still  "  Good-night." 


128  THE    LAMB    WITHOUT. 

Thus,  nightly,  do  I  bow  my  head 
To  the  Unseen,  Eternal  force ; 
Asking  sweet  pardon  of  my  child 
For  yielding  him  in  Death's  divorce. 


He  turned  away  from  childish  plays, 
His  baby  toys  he  held  in  scorn ; 
He  loved  the  forms  of  thought  divine, 
Woods,  flowers,  and  fields  of  waving  corn. 

And  then  I  knew,  my  little  one 
Should  by  no  vulgar  lore  be  taught ; 
But  by  the  symbols  God  has  given 
To  solemnize  our  common  thought ; 

The  mystic  angles,  three  in  one, 
The  circling  serpent's  faultless  round, 
And,  in  far  glory  dim,  the  Cross, 
Where  Love  o'erleaps  the  human  bound. 


THE  SHADOW  THAT  IS  BORN  WITH  US. 

One  said  to  me  :  reveal  the  untold  grief 
Thou  holdest,  treasured  in  the  inmost  deep  ; 
I  have  experience  that  may  counsel  thee, 
A  heart  to  pity — ready  eyes  to  weep — 

I  see  the  cruel  furrows  in  thy  face, 
The  cheek  depressed,  the  wan  and  cheerless  eye  ; 
I  ask  thee  wherefore — "  'tis  that  I  am  sad  " — 
But  wherefore  sad?     Sit  here,  and  tell  me  why. 

I  can  but  tell  thee  ;  I  have  tried  to  frame 
The  legendary  sorrows  of  my  youth  ; 
Then  wondering  paused,  as  at  a  fiction  strange  ; 
I  spoke  in  fables — deeper  lay  the  truth. 

I've  made  impatient  efforts  to  uplift 
In  words,  the  weight  that  hung  upon  my  soul  ; 
Oh  !  senseless — while  I  battled  with  the  air, 
Here  lay  the  burthen,  undisturbed  and  whole. 
9 


130        THE    SHADOW    THAT    IS    BORN    WITH    US. 

Mine  is  no  grief  that  helps  itself  with  tears, 
Or  in  wild  sobbing  passes  from  the  breast ; 
Constant  as  Fate,  inalienate  as  life, 
Tis  my  employ  of  day,  my  nightly  rest. 

It  is  a  strife  that  heeds  no  set  of  sun, 
A  discord  daring  and  irresolute, 
A  weary  business  without  Sabbath  pause, 
A  problem  ever  endless  to  compute. 

Nor  hand  of  leech  nor  surgeon  can  avail 
To  heal  the  plague-spot,  hopeless  of  relief, 
The  suicidal  steel  could  reach  it  not ; 
I  sometimes  deem,  myself  is  all  my  grief. 

They  say,  my  mother  brought  me  forth  in  tears, 
And  fed  me  from  a  melancholy  breast ; 
Thus  while  she  sleeps,  her  sorrow  lives  in  me, 
A  tie  the  envious  grave  has  not  supprest. 

But  Heaven  that  gave  such  matter  to  my  life, 
Denied  not  love  of  art,  nor  plastic  skill ; 
I  mould  an  angel  from  the  sombre  mass, 
That,  deeply  bronzine,  is  an  angel  still. 


THE    SHADOW    THAT    IS    BORX    WITH    US.         131 

Content  thee  then,  the  secret  of  my  life 
Not  ev'n  to  Love's  true  hearing  may  belong, 
Only  to  His  who  set,  to  keep  my  lips, 
His  guardians  twain,  of  Silence  and  of  Song. 


A   MAN'S    STORY. 

In  the  sad,  long  years,  the  estranging 
That  lie,  like  a  sombre  screen 
Twixt  thy  lawless,  impassioned  ranging, 
And  quiet  that  since  hath  been  ; 
I  have  heard  of  an  heart  whose  loving 
Turned  ne'er  from  thy  perilous  wake, 
Outdaring  the  world's  reproving, 
And  anguish  of  death  for  thy  sake. 

Now,  as  thou  sit'st  silent  beside  me, 
While  the  sunset  draws  near  its  end, 
And  the  down  of  the  evening  may  hide  me, 
Speak  tenderly,  friend  to  friend. 
While  the  fading  mountains  before  thee 
Call  the  heights  of  thy  wandering  back, 
Recount  me  the  love  she  bore  thee, 
That  failed  not,  for  wrench  or  rack. 


a  man's  story.  133 

She  laid  her  soft  hand  in  my  bosom, 
She  bowed  her  young  head  at  my  feet ; 
She  strewed  with  wild  beauty  and  blossom 
The  ways  we  rehearsed  to  meet. 
She  withered  in  my  displeasure, 
Was  humblest  before  my  praise, 
She  lavished  her  heart's  best  treasure, 
Unconscious  of  years  or  days. 

She  thought  to  afford  me  only 
The  worship  that  was  my  due, 
A  rapture  intense  and  lonely, 
That  endless  time  should  renew ; 
To  sit  in  her  place  and  behold  me 
Transfigured,  as  some  fair  star, 
With  a  heart  leaping  up  to  enfold  me, 
Was  a  dream  that  she  followed  far. 

But,  as  beacon  replies  to  beacon, 
So  Love  answered  back  to  Love. 
Towards  her  blind  unreasoned  seeking 
My  soul  in  its  might  did  move  ; 
The  might  of  a  man  in  his  willing, 
That  stays  not  for  law  or  bound, 
That  strides  to  its  rash  fulfilling, 
Then  glances,  aghast,  around. 


134  a  man's  story. 

We  met,  and  the  shock  astonished, 
But  my  arms  were  about  her  then  ; 
By  my  fervent  pleading  admonished, 
She  smiled,  and  took  heart  again. 
Thenceforth,  as  the  moon  in  her  glory 
Keeps  heaven,  through  the  storm-cloud's  gloom, 
She  carried  her  torchlight  before  me, 
Steadfast,  till  death  and  doom. 

The  world  made  the  struggle  that  followed, 
A  wreck  lies  astrand  on  its  shore, 
Where  wild  wrath  of  wild  powers  swallowed 
Love's  treasures  forevermore — 
When  the  terrible  sequel  o'ertook  her, 
I  felt,  and  was  pained  in  her  pain, 
But  as  Prudence  decreed,  I  forsook  her, 
To  comfort  her,  never  again. 

Between  us,  a  silence  of  torment, 

That  each  is  disdainful  to  break, 

That  fretteth  the  soul  as  a  garment, 

That  stingeth  the  heart,  like  a  snake — 

Should  we  meet,  no  sweet  spasm  of  yearning, 

No  startle  of  thrilling  surprise, 

Our  sad  eyes  are  lowered,  discerning 

The  grave  where  the  best  of  us  lies. 


THE    LIGHT    FALLEX. 

A  friend  was  stricken  from  my  life — 
I  found  no  word  to  sob  or  say; 
One  shiver  marked  the  severed  nerve, 
And  I  walked  silent  on  my  way. 

But  from  the  bosom  of  my  faith 
I  missed  its  soul  of  loveliness, 
And,  musing  in  my  steps,  I  said : 
What  unblest  vacancy  is  this  ? 

What  light  hath  fall'n  from  soul  and  sky 
Whose  absence  should  afflict  so  sore 
That  I  discern  no  heaven  on  high, 
Within,  no  living  Saviour  more  ? 

I  dreamed  not  how  my  worship  hung 
On  human  features,  till  that  day 
That  showed  th'  ideal  presence  gone, 
And  life's  sweet  Christ  entombed  for  ave. 


THE    TWO    STARS. 

I,  the  Mistress  of  the  Valley, 
In  the  twilight  soft  and  dim, 
Hold  the  headway  of  my  fancies 
'Gainst  the  evening  shadows  grim. 

In  the  distance  strives  the  streamlet 
With  the  neighbor's  rustic  flute, 
In  the  boughs  the  breeze  doth  nestle, 
And  all  other  things  are  mute. 

In  the  little,  silent  cottage 
Where,  as  to  the  palace  door, 
Comes  the  sunshine,  every  morning, 
To  be  slowly  darkened  o'er  ; 

Gathered  lie  the  pretty  babies, 
In  the  silken  snood  of  sleep, 
While  the  angels  keep  above  them, 
Folded  wing  and  noiseless  sweep. 


THE    TWO    STARS.  13' 

Straight  before  me  rise  twin  hillocks 
Like  to  brothers,  matched  in  size, 
Shutting  out  the  distant  landscape, 
And  the  flush  of  evening  skies. 

While  the  doubtful  face  of  heaven 
Looks  beyond  me  and  above, 
As  with  one  red  eye  of  justice, 
And  one  lenient  eye  of  love. 

Far  to  Sight  though  near  to  Reason, 
The  new  risen  moon  appears, 
Like  a  martyr-scar  of  glory 
Shining  through  eternal  years. 

So !  be  merciful,  thou  Heaven  ! 
Do  not  crush  me  as  I  stand 
In  the  dark  and  narrow  defile, 
With  the  hills  on  either  hand. 

Where  the  shadows  grew  perplexing, 
And  no  outlet  was  to  see, 
Bear  this  witness  to  my  weakness, 
That  my  striving  was  to  thee. 


138  THE    TWO    STARS. 

Smile  upon  my  latest  struggle, 
Tenderly  my  fault  reprove, 
With  thy  fiery  eye  of  justice, 
And  thy  lenient  eye  of  love. 


A   WORD    WITH   THE   BROWNINGS. 

I  am  told  you  do  not  praise  me,  Barret  Browning, 
high-inspired, 

Nor  you,  Robert,  full  of  manhood,  with  your  Angel 
interlyred ; 

In  my  sometime  invocation  of  the  poet-brotherhood, 

'Twas  a  word  from  you  I  wanted,  in  a  word,  a  sen- 
tence,— good. 

'Twas  your  Worships  I  stood  greeting,  as  I  waited,  cap 
in  hand, 

On  the  unattained  excellence,  and  far-loved  Mother- 
land ; 

Of  the  best  things  and  remotest,  you,  the  spirit-types 
so  fair — 

I  appealed  to  you,  forgetful  of  the  friends  that  nearer 
were. 


140  A    WORD    WITH    THE    BROWNINGS. 

But  no  word  came  o'er  the  water,  though  I  strained  my 

listening  ear; 
Had  they  known  the  need  so  urgent,  they  had  sent  a 

shout  of  cheer. 
That  had  been  an  alms,  and  not  a  right,  discomforting 

always — 
God  forbid  that  holy  Pity  should  grow  faithless,  moving 

Praise. 

Praise  is  of  the  awful  voices,  of  the  face  whose  smile 

or  frown 
Helps  the  martyr  to  his  glory,  casts  the  laurelled  tyrant 

down  ; 
For  the  scales  that  weigh  men's  actions,  measure  too 

the  poet's  song, 
And    the    hidden    thoughts    of    Justice    to    Eternity 

belong. 

Keep  your  counsel,  poet-household,  ye,  the  mystic  one 

in  three, 
Strength  of  man  with  love  of  woman,  and  the   king, 

Futurity — 
Ye  shall  hear  my  fond   upbraidings,  if  ye  hold  your 

Winter's  reign 
By  the'  Casa  Guicli  windows,  or   the  swarming  banks 

of  Seine. 


A    WORD    WITH    THE    BROWNINGS.  141 

Think  how  little  is  in  Nature,  if  in  littleness  of  eye, 
You  resume  it  from  your  chamber,  or  your  carriage, 

rolling  by  ; 
Merely  shabby  ancient  mountains,  and  a  tiresome  old 

sea, 
Slow   the   rivers,    dull   the   forest,  adding  weary  tree 

to  tree. 

'Tis  not  yours,  this  idle  strophe,  but  in  all  that  you 

have  seen, 
Does  no  inward  grace  add  splendor  to  the  purple,  and 

the  sheen  ? 
Wants  there  not  a  generous  spirit  for  the  finer  joys  of 

sight  ? 
Heart   must   help   the   scenes    around    us,    ere    they 

minister  delight. 

I  remember  summer  mornings  in  a  village  poor  and 

mean, 
With  a  railroad  running  near  it,  and  a  living  oaken 

screen ; 
When  the  Girlhood  gathered  round  me,  a   decorous 

little  band, 
As  I  read  with  fervent  feeling,  and  your  volumes  in 

my  hand. 


142  A    WORD    WITH    THE    BROWNINGS. 

Read  the  "  Blot  upon  the  Scutcheon,"  and  the  suit  for 

"Geraldine;" 
"Paracelsus"   and  "  Sordello,"  and  "The   Gondola" 

between, 
Read  the  "  Drama  of  the  Druses,"  leaving  not  a  mystic 

sense 
That    uplift  your   friends  to  wonder,  in  the  praeter- 

perfect  tense. 

Read  with  forefinger  extended,  with  a  fixed  and  furrow- 
ing brow  ; 
With  a  voice  that  wept  your  pathos,  or  upheld  your 

triumphs  now ; 
And  the  white-robed  ones  drew  nearer,  and  grew  very 

loath  to  leave, 
For  the  warning  bell  of  Noontide,  or  the  shadowy  nod 

of  Eve. 

Oh  !  I  made  it  clear  before  them,  with  a  mild  ingenious 

brain 
Wound  your  tangled  fancies  smoothwise,  brought  your 

vanished  thought  again, — 
When  they  puzzled   o'er   the  volumes,  'twas   another 

thing,  they  said  ; 
Tried  a  page  or  two,  and  left  it,  with  some  aching  of 

the  head. 


A    WORD    WITH    THE    BROWNINGS.  143 

One,  the  noblest   and   the   dearest,   in  my  heart  her 

worship  lies, 
Nought  forbids  my  lips  to  name  her,  save  her  meek 

remembered  eyes, 
Said,  "the  verses  you  transfigured  cannot  touch  me  as 

before, 
Could  they  keep  the  soul  you  gave  them,  I  would  read 

them  evermore." 

I  was  happier  in  those  mornings,  when  my  voice,  still. 

keeping  youth 
That  had  fled  my  wayward  features,  gave  you  nobly,  in 

your  truth, 
And  there  seemed  a  natural  fitness  twixt  the  burthen 

and  the  tone, 
Than  when  wider  walls  gave  echo  to  a  music  all  my 

own. 

Or  it  might  be  at  a  banquet,  one  who  sits  to  satirize 
Called   you   up   to   suffer  judgment,  I   to   help  your 

obsequies ; 
You  had  cracked  his  teeth  with  harshness,  urged  the 

man  I  need  not  name. 
"  Sir,  you  do  not  understand  this,"  cried  your  champion, 

all  aflame. 


144  A    WORD    WITH    THE    BROWNINGS. 

Had  you  questioned  my  endeavour  with  the  overflow- 
ing heart 

That  gives  tender  recognition  to  the  uncrowned  child 
of  Art, 

Had  you  stood  before  the  temple,  as  the  heavenly 
donors  stand, 

Stooping  to  bestow  your  largesse,  you  had  grasped  a 
Sister's  hand. 

But  the  Sister  still,   unbidden,   towards   your   distant 

faces  turns, 
Still    pursues    your  hallowed   friendship,  which    some 

nobler  duty  earns. 
Even  to  wait,   afar,    unrecognized,  is  pleasure  wiling 

pain; 
For  I  hear  you,  and  I  answer  you,  again,  and   yet 

again. 


ONE   WORD    MORE    WITH    E.   B.    B. 

I  can  but  fill  the  page  I  owe 
With  pictures  of  the  things  I  see. 
I  pause  to  feel  the  noontide  glow, 
And  bless  what  God  ordains  to  be. 

This  tireless  harmony  of  life, 
Impulse  and  weight  divinely  poised  ; 
This  upward  flight  of  Thought  and  Love, 
These  slow  perfections,  recognized. 

And  could  I  ask,  it  were  to  heal 
The  struggles  of  this  Mother-mould, 

Do  ' 

That  flings  us  flaming,  from  its  breast, 
That  hides  our  ashes,  spent  and  cold. 

I  could  implore  great  gifts  of  Peace 

To  ransom  grief-embittered  hearts, 

That  self  might  sink,  that  Wrath  might  cease, 

And  Plenty  speed  the  genial  Arts. 


10 


146  ONE    WORD    MORE    WITH    E.    B.    B. 

There  are  who  thread  unmeasured  heights 
With  spirits  for  their  body-guard, 
Who  vex  with  ill-directed  flight, 
And  sentence,  mystical,  and  hard. 

I  shrink  before  the  nameless  draught 
That  helps  to  such  unearthly  things, 
And  if  a  drug  could  lift  so  high, 
I  would  not  trust  its  treacherous  wings  ; 

Lest,  lapsing  from  them,  I  should  fall, 
A  weight  more  dead  than  stock  or  stone, — 
The  warning  fate  of  those  who  fly 
With  pinions  other  than  their  own. 

The  steady  spheres  of  God  outvie 
The  fitful  meteors  of  the  brain ; 
These  may  be  wanting  to  our  need, 
To  those,  we  never  look  in  vain. 

We  sleep  in  grief,  or  watch  in  pain, 
Or  crushed  with  guilty  burthens  lie  ; 
We  rise  to  meet  th'  unfailing  stars 
That  smile  forgiveness  loftily. 


ONE    WORD    MORE    WITH    E.    B.    B.  147 

So  Dante,  from  his  dreadful  way 
Emerging,  new  in  fear  and  awe, 
The  heavenly  signal  recognized, 
And  stood  to  bless  th'  eternal  law. 

I  lift  my  waning  sight  to  them, 
Unchanged  thro'  all  these  changing  years, 
And,  strong  in  friends  that  cannot  fail, 
Forget  my  errors,  leave  my  tears. 


DANTE. 

He  wore  an  honest  hatred  on  his  sleeve, 
Of  red  oppression  and  inhuman  wrong  ; 
Brief  pause  he  made  to  question  or  to  grieve, 
But,  singing  his  incomparable  song, 
Wove  each  great  stanza  of  his  life  along. 

His  hands  were  pure  from  gold,  his  heart  from  guilt, - 
Could  the  fixed  features  deign  to  wear  a  smile, 
It  must  have  been  the  gala  of  some  deed 
Whose  doer's  guerdon  rested  in  that  meed 
Most,  tho'  approving  angels  wept  the  while. 

In  his  immortal  heart  such  virtue  lies 
Of  Love,  that  builds  the  shrine  it  consecrates, 
That  who  pursues  the  passion  to  the  gates 
Whose  music  shuts  out  the  uncertain  Fates, 
Beholds  it,  deathless,  in  his  Lady's  eyes. 


DANTE.  149 

Dante  was  lovelorn  in  his  youthful  days, 
With  amorous  wanderers  fain  to  pass  his  time  ; 
Nor  only  thus  knew  he  those  devious  ways 
Set  in  the  glory  of  his  antique  rhyme, — 
So  much  at  least,  his  Legendary  says, 

Seeking  excuse.  But  this  is  further  said  : 
He  was  no  Wanton — Eager  Beauty  laid 
Her  ambush  for  him,  from  the  laurel  grove 
She  darted,  with  his  solemn  traits  in  love, 
And  in  his  breast  her  glorious  capture  made. 

Or  swifter,  Sorrow,  with  her  eyes  on  fire, 
Their  red  glow  ravished  from  her  hollow  breast, 
Laid  her  thin  grasp  upon  the  Poet's  vest, 
Till,  at  her  tale  of  agony  confessed, 
Famted  the  heart,  and  fell  the  wailing  lyre. 

Rest,  mid  sepulchral  marbles,  dim  and  cold, 
Setting  the  lamp  that  saw  thee  over-wrought 
With  thine  unearthly  subject — labour  fraught 
With  distant  blessing,  since  our  ages  hold 
Their  mirror  to  the  greatness  of  thy  thought. 


MOONLIGHT. 

Soft  the  all-embracing  moonlight, 
Holds  the  lone  one  in  its  arms, 
And  the  nerves,  high  strung  to  sorrow, 
"With  its  lambent  touch  disarms. 
From  its  softness  I  could  model 
Many  an  image  fair  and  free, 
But  to-night  I  yield  this  power, 
It  shall  work  its  will  on  me. 

Oh  !  this  weary  human  longing 

For  companions  all  mine  own, 

Oh  !  these  eyes  bereft  of  beauty, 

Oh !  this  ear,  unblest  of  tone  ! 

Oh  !  these  lips  that,  prest  to  marble 

Turn  to  marble  with  its  cold, 

Oh  !  these  dreams,  whose  empty  thronging 

Leaves  the  heart,  all  unconsoled,  — 


MOONLIGHT.  151 

Could  a  dove  caress  the  silence 

With  the  healing  of  her  wings  ; 

Could  some  dear-bought  heavenly  treasure 

Stand  for  earth's  beloved  things  ; 

Through  the  gracious  ministration 

Of  the  gentle  summer  night, 

Free  of  shadows,  blest  in  longing, 

I  could  soar  to  life  and  light. 


THE    PRISONER    OF    HOPE. 

As  Samson  in  the  temple  of  his  foes — 
Be  patient  in  the  hand  that  crushes  thee, — 
'Twere  but  one  sudden  struggle,  one  wild  throe ; 
Like  the  blind  Anarch,  thou  wert  venged  and  free. 

This  deadly  power  discerning  in  thyself, 
Keep  guarded  from  the  slow  match  of  desire ; 
Who  disembosoms  the  volcanic  Earth 
Shall  not  forget  to  loose  the  latent  fire. 

So  in  an  atom  lies  the  Infinite, 

Concentred  thou  mayst  deem  it,  not  confined ; 

So  in  the  narrow  prison  of  thy  life 

Be  conscious  of  the  boundless  scope  of  mind. 

Wherever  truth  can  beckon,  Thought  can  spring 
Setting  her  winged  steps  on  whirling  spheres  ; 
She  gains  the  upper  calm — the  height  serene, 
And  sees  below,  the  pent  domain  of  tears. 


THE    PRISONER    OF    HOPE.  153 

Stript  of  thy  happier  attributes  of  birth. 
The  virtue  of  thy  race  is  left  thee  still, 
If,  comprehending  all  the  scope  of  bliss, 
Thy  liberty  be  larger  than  thy  will. 


HIGH    ART. 

So,  friends,  you  see  my  picture  brought  to  end 
With  labor  manifold  of  eye  and  hand, 
And  that  whose  slaves  they  are,  the  master-brain. 
Great  Angelo's  Last  Judgment  I've  reversed, 
And  Hell  on  Earth  is  what  I  have  to  show. 
The  subject  is  more  homelike  than  you  think, 
The  scenes  we  move  in  gave  the  atmosphere, 
The  whole  is  painted  from  what  's  next  at  hand. 

You  see  the  emblems  of  the  time  and  place 
Foreshadowed  in  the  City's  household  Gods — 
An  elm  that  offers  hanging,  to  my  mind, — 
Spires  like  to  lightning-rods  of  heavenly  grace, 
Whose  services  are  merely  possible  ; 
That  fire,  too,  has  a  fashion  of  its  own, 
And  might  consume  an  unprotected  soul, — 
With  groupings  of  the  granite  piles  that  stand 
For  Babel's  pride,  without  her  gift  of  tongues. 


HIGH   ART.  155 

Most  of  your  number  claim  some  feature  here, 
Some  act  or  gesture,  woven  with  my  toil. 
You,  Madam,  seize  upon  the  hair  and  brow 
So  golden-placid  in  this  pardoning  Saint — 
They  're  yours  indeed,  but  here  the  likeness  ends. 
Your  eyes,  you  see,  were  not  the  spirit  sort, 
Your  mouth,  a  pursed  conventionality  ; 
More  than  one  weary  morning's  work  it  took 
To  help  what  was  forgotten  in  your  making. 
That  Matron,  so  familiar  to  our  ken, 
Who  loves  her  scandal  raw  as  English  beef, 
And,  so  she  gets  her  pound  of  shivering  flesh, 
Is  little  careful  how  she  comes  by  it ; 
You  '11  know  her,  by  her  slab  and  jaunty  air, 
Her  spiteful  feathers,  and  her  glossy  back ; 
But  aught  so  worthless  as  her  countenance 
Art  does  not  keep,  so  that  is  turned  elsewhere. 

You,  addle-pate  with  diamonds  in  your  gift ; — 
You,  not  of  God,  but  Babbage,  clever  thing 
To  calculate,  and  add,  and  multiply, — 
And  you,  poor  Wagling,  striking  baldly  now 
At  follies  you  have  supped  on,  in  your  time, 
I've  shadowed  with  an  artist's  charity. 
But  you,  stage-villain  of  some  tragedy 


156  HIGH    ART. 

That  shudders  through  the  smoothness  of  your  face  ; 
Thank  God,  Sir,  by  the  bending  of  your  knees, 
I  do  not  show  you  in  my  pillory 
For  gentler  fools  to  gape  at,  and  contemn  ! 

And  this  veiled  figure  that  dishevelled  flies, 

Or  beats  back  scorn  with  scorn,  or  weeps  at  pity, 

It  has  the  face  no  second-sight  can  show. 

What — it  mislikes  you  ?  I've  allowed  myself 
Some  freedoms  ?     Yes — a  painter's  privilege  ; 
To  put  on  canvas  what  you  would  not  show 
If  you  could  help  the  same,  being  'ware  of  it. 
I've  made  a  Bandit  of  a  bearded  wretch 
By  dashing  courage  in  his  vacant  eyes. 
That  persecuting  Jew  is  horrible  ? 
He  worships  weekly  at  a  Christian  shrine. 
I've  clothed  in  scarlet  one  whose  worldly  dress 
Is  a  prim  rainbow  of  proprieties, — 
I  let  the  scarlet  of  her  soul  strike  through 
The  drab  decorum,  as  another  drew 
The  fiery  Corday,  going  to  her  death, 
Draped  in  the  hue  of  her  impetuous  blood. 
I've  suited  Harpies  claws  to  well-bred  hands, 
And  put  the  snake-wreath  for  the  snaky  tongue. 


HIGH    AKT.  157 

Well — but  I  want  a  picture,  as  you  know, 
And  your  strong  points  came  excellently  in, — 
For  men  and  women  of  the  best  repute 
Make  cheats,  thieves,  cut-throats,  with  a  little  aid. 

So,  you  have  helped  me  to  a  work  of  Art, 
And,  without  pains  of  yours,  to  men's  remark — 
Oh  !  take  elsewhere  your  favor,  if  you  will — 
But  what  you  've  taught  me,  in  your  own  despite, 
I  keep  for  my  own  uses,  and  the  world's. 
Go — sit  to  every  artist  save  the  Sun — 
For,  hark  ye,  as  a  friend — it  were  not  wise 
To  tempt  his  rendering  of  your  facial  text. 

And,  now  I  think  of  it,  your  wrath  assists 
A  project  that  has  grown  on  me,  of  late — 
For,  having  quartered  in  your  haunts  so  long 
That  I  have  got  your  wickedness  by  heart. 
What  choice  is  left  me,  but  an  hermitage, 
Where  converse  of  the  calm  immortal  souls 
Shall  help  your  poison  with  its  antidote, 
Till  Art  be  purged  of  grief  and  bitterness. 
I'll  build  its  walls  of  sturdy  monoliths, 
(Faiths  without  dogmas — Mother-sciences.) 
Apocalyptic  Hope  shall  ceil  the  roof 


158  HIGH    ART. 

With  visions  that  were  with  me  from  my  birth, — 
I'll  teach  the  door  a  watchword  of  my  own 
That  shall  forbid  its  turning — here  I'll  work, 
With  earnest  toil,  the  ransom  of  my  years, — 
Till  Death,  stern  friend  that  cannot  be  denied, 
Shall  enter  noiseless,  to  depart  with  me. 


PRELUDE. 

He  could  not  close  his  weary  eyes 
Because  she  chid  him,  ere  she  slept ; 
He  left  his  bed  at  morning  rise, 
And  through  the  streets  uneasy  swept, 
Waiting  till  slumber's  truce  should  cease, 
And  she  might  give  the  sign  of  peace. 
Shall  she  be  proud  ?  oh  no — 
It  is  not  she,  but  Love 
That  moves  the  great  heart  so. 

She  gave  it,  and  he  bent  his  head, 
The  head  that  bears  the  massy  curls, 
And  pressed  the  lips,  so  lustrous  red, 
The  full  lips,  set  with  stainless  pearls, 
With  fervour  on  the  thin,  weak  hand, 
That  holds  nor  prowess,  wealth,  nor  land. 
Shall  she  be  proud  ?  oh  no — 
Not  by  her  word,  but  Love's, 
The  pulse-beats  come  and  go. 


1 60  PRELUDE. 

And  when  I  try,  beneath  this  sun, 

All  exploits  that  o'erleap  the  grave, 

I  find  by  Will  they  were  not  done, 

Nor  Wealth,  nor  Wisdom  chose  nor  gave. 

Some  higher  Potency  begot 

The  Virtue's  self  that  knew  it  not. 

Shall  we  be  proud  ?  oh  no  ? 

Not  from  ourselves,  but  Love, 

Immortal  actions  flow. 


ODE. 

Wherefore,  great  Love,  to  thee 

I  bend  the  duteous  knee, 
The  homage  of  the  heart  devoutly  paying  ; 

Thou,  greatest,  first,  and  best, 

Lord  of  the  human  breast, 
None  vainly  slighteth  thee  in  deed  or  saying. 

Not  in  the  childish  guise 

Where  thy  transcendent  eyes 
O'erleapt  the  heathen  heaven's  soft  surrounding  , 

Nor  in  the  wood-nymph's  dress, 

With  lusty  gagliardesse 
Of  Satyrs  from  the  tangled  thicket  bounding. 


PRELUDE.  1G1 

But  with  the  awful  brow, 

The  still,  hushed  presence  thou, 
The  eyes  that  darken  not  the  world  with  weeping, 

The  hand  that  never  fails 

To  match  the  golden  scales 
"With  the  heart  wealth,  left  countless  to  thy  keeping. 

Thou  from  the  infant's  birth 

To  the  last  day  of  earth 
With  tireless  skill  each  fateful  action  fitting ; 

A  genius  at  his  side, 

Divine  to  rule  and  guide, 
Nor  overcome  at  last,  thro'  fall  and  flitting  ; 

Thou,  at  the  classic  feast 

By  garlands  unappeased, 
Responding  not  to  fondest  invocation 

Of  youthful  votaries, 

Till  holy  Socrates 
Uplift  their  hearts  to  thine  eternal  shining. 

Mute  at  the  high  command, 
The  solemn  voice  and  hand, 
Loud  mirth  and  tipsy  jollity  sink  under  ; 


11 


162  PRELUDE. 

The  dim  eyes  strain  to  see 
Thy  far  off  sanctity, 
Then  turn  to  other  eyes,  suffused  with  wonder. 

My  paean  too  shall  sound, 

And  my  glad  feet  rebound 
From  this  dark  orb,  our  chequered  fortunes  rolling, 

Where  my  faint  heart  lay  prone, 

Up  to  thy  starry  zone, 
As  the  bird  flies,  by  Nature's  sweet  controlling. 

But  thou  rebuk'st  us  too, 

For  all  our  wild  ado, 
The  want,  the  waste,  the  weary  fault  and  fretting ; 

How  mad  the  turmoil  seems, 

When,  in  our  waking  dreams, 
Thou  sham'st  it  with  the  presence  past  forgetting. 

Be  piteous  to  our  sins, 

Where  thought  of  thee  begins, 
And  on  thy  hallowed  ground  we  tread  unknowing ; 

Are  ravished  far  away 

To  unknown  night  and  day, 
Scared   with    dim    heights,   and    viewless    torrents 
flowing. 


PRELUDE.  163 

A  thousand  phantoms  claim 

Allegiance  in  thy  name, 
And  we,  unhappy,  take  the  lead  they  give  us, 

While  in  thy  sacred  bounds, 

Illuminate  with  wounds, 
Slow  smiling  sweet,  thou  waitest  to  receive  us. 

There,  where  no  dust  nor  damp 

Quench  thine  unfailing  lamp, 
Suffer,  oh  Infinite,  that  we  behold  thee ; 

And  kiss  thy  feet,  with  tears 

Hoarded  thro'  painful  years, 
And  with  the  wealth  of  loosened  locks  engold  thee. 

Like  priceless  ointment  shed 

On  some  beloved  head, 
Let  the  mute  worship  of  our  hearts  come  o'er  thee, 

Till,  ravished  with  thy  sight, 

Transfigured  in  thy  light, 
Our  human  baseness  faint  and  die  before  thee. 


ADE. 

A  truce,  a  truce,  a  gallant  truce  ! 
A  hand  flung  up,  and  a  shout  of  cheer ; 
The  toiling  hand  that  has  sped  and  spun 
The  labor  of  the  year. 

Farewell,  ye  turbulent  hosts  of  rhyme, 
Whose  wrangling  wrought  such  ill-content, 
Farewell,  ye  beggarly  broken  lines, 
A  Falstaff  regiment. 

The  sour  and  sweet  I  could  not  taste 
Till  ye  had  sat  and  drunk  your  fill ; 
The  life  I  bore  was  never  mine, 
But  yours  to  waste  at  will. 

Oh !  yon,  where  the  sunset's  heart  is  warm 
A  fair  bird  singeth,  sorrow-free  ; 
I  am  his  Sister  belov'd,  he  says, 

And,  wistful,  he  waits  for  me. 


ADE.  165 

No  bird  of  Juno's  nor  of  Jove's, 
Nor  Pallas,  blinking  thro'  day-shut  eyes  ; 
But  a  mate-dove,  loving  so  faithfully, 
That  Love  did  make  him  wise. 

And  we  will  sit  as  on  burnished  gold, 
The  earth-ball  rolling  at  our  feet, 
And  whisper  of  things  which,  had  they  been, 
Had  been  for  song;  too  sweet. 


By  the  Author  of  this  Volume. 


PASSION-FLOWERS 

THIRD    EDITION. 

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